


24 Days of Johnlock Christmas

by darcymariaphoster



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Advent Calendar, Angels, Chance Meetings, Christmas, Christmas Cards, Christmas Carols, Christmas Cookies, Christmas Eve, Christmas Tree, Eggnog, Fairies, Fake Relationship, Faunlock, Fireplaces, Fluff, French!Sherlock, Ice Skating, John's a supah-star, Johnlock Roulette, Kidlock, M/M, Maybe some angst, Mentions of child abuse/neglect, Mentions of drugs, Mistletoe, Parentlock, Potterlock, Reunions, School Plays, Secret Santas, Sherlock has a lisp, Sherlock is a Scrooge, Snowball Fights, Snowed In, Snowman, Soldier!John, Teenlock, The Nutcracker Ballet, Unilock, Violin Music, Winter Solstice, Winter Wonderland, a story a day!, balletlock, canonverse, coming home for Christmas, competition style Christmas decorations, hot cocoa and too much whipped cream, how did John get Sherlock into those antlers anyway?, it's just sally and anderson soooo, kind of mean thoughts about oneself, little oneshots, lonely christmases, mentions of the mind palace, mostly just mindless fluff, nymph!john, office parties, old men sherlock and john, pictures with santa, rugby!john, skier!sherlock, slight verbal bullying i guess?, snowboarder!john, spiked?eggnog, sweaters/jumpers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-01
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-04 09:26:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 37,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5329064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darcymariaphoster/pseuds/darcymariaphoster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's time to countdown to Christmas! Johnlock style. </p><p>One short story a day, based on a short prompt of some sort. (I don't plan on being online on Christmas day, but if that changes, there might be an extra chapter.) This is pretty much just a collection of stand-alone stories.</p><p>I'll add tags as I go along.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. December 1: Snowball Fight

**Author's Note:**

> Some of the prompts are hard to make an entire short story out of so the prompt itself may just kind of be mentioned in passing. But they are incorporated somehow or another. 
> 
> Please review if you feel so inclined!

Sherlock is not actually a very social person, nor is he outgoing. His brother, however, is almost opposite. He’s always invited out with friends and going to parties, coming home at odd hours of the night. It’s a rather amusing contrast to his neat and organised, straight-A student personality. How he manages to garner so many friends when he talks to everyone with his nose in the air is something Sherlock is rather mystified by. He’s fairly certain that blackmail is normally involved somehow.

 

He’s pondering these things one day while serving some students from the university down the street. His brother’s in the next group and he sighs, resigned to having to switch his coworker positions as he’s not allowed to ring up his brother. “John,” he calls after taking the last order for the first group.

 

John’s on the shorter side with shaggy blond hair, gorgeous blue eyes, and a dazzling smile. Sherlock does _not_ have a crush on him -- not at all. He hasn’t been pining after him in his dreams for the past year since he started working with him at the coffee shop. Not the Great Sherlock Holmes. “Yep?” John chirps, walking over with the whipped cream still in his hand. “What’s up?”

 

Sherlock scowls out at the crowd. “My brother is in the next group to order. Will you take the register?”

 

“Yeah, of course,” John answers and reaches over to sign Sherlock off and himself onto the register. “I just finished order number twelve for a Jessica. Here, this is for the next one.” He passes the whipped cream over to Sherlock with a small smile. “I think, if I read that order right, he didn’t want a lot on it.”

 

Sherlock grunts in response and goes to make the orders. In all honesty, they know that he’s faster at making the drinks than John, who’s faster at the register. But their manager wants them to “practise new talents” and makes them swap positions all the time. Easily, Sherlock breezes through each order that’s left from the first group and sends them out. He quickly starts on the second group and catches up about halfway through. After that, they move like a well-oiled machine -- John gives him the order, Sherlock quickly prepares it and send it out just in time to get the next order.

 

They wrap up quickly and glance at each other, laughing softly. “I’m going to take the trash out real fast while we have a break in the rush,” John tells him, going to the rubbish bin and pulling out the bag. Sherlock shrugs and stares out at all the students slowly trickling out of the shop.

 

As more people leave, he realises that quite a bit of time has passed. He makes two more drinks and sells a cookie before he goes to investigate. “John?” he calls as he pushes open the back door -- and is greeted with a snowball to the face. He sputters a moment in surprise, managing a weak, “What the…?”

 

John laughs as Sherlock brushes snow off his face. “I was wondering when you’d come out. I’ve been waiting for ages!” The fact that he thinks it’s so funny mildly annoys the brunet who reaches down and makes a snowball for himself, chucking it at John’s head. It hits him square in the face as well and Sherlock laughs, finding that he quite likes the startled look on his friend’s face.

 

“It’s so on,” John declares and breaks out into a huge grin as he stoops to gather snow into another tight ball.

 

The fight that ensues is loud and furious, each scrambling to get their snowballs made before they’re hit. The only thing that stops them is their coworker, Sally, popping in before she clocks in. “What are you two morons doing?” she snaps, obviously irritated.

 

John looks over his shoulder, and gets hit in the chest by an ill-timed snowball. “Is it two already?” he asks innocently.

 

“Yes,” she sighs, rolling her eyes. “And there’s a line forming. So get your soaking wet arses back in there.”

 

Sherlock grunts, trying not to laugh. “We’re coming.” She turns and disappears back inside. He saunters up to John and they stare at each other with lopsided smiles on their faces. “Truce?” he finally inquires, thrusting his hand out to shake.

 

John considers it a moment and then shakes his hand. “Okay, yeah, truce,” he chuckles, shivering. “Let’s go inside and get Sally set-up. Then I’ll buy you a coffee, yeah?”

 

Sherlock almost readily agrees without much thought but he pauses just in time. “Buy _me_ coffee?” he asks, startled.

 

“Yes, buy you coffee,” John repeats back, a little more nervous this time. “Unless you don’t want to, ya know, associate outside of work or anything. I can get that…”

 

“No, that’s not it,” Sherlock hurries to reply, a blush creeping traitorously up his neck. “Buy me coffee then.”

 

John stares blankly at him, and then slowly breaks into a smile. “I will then.” He shakes snow out of his hair and they walk back inside, quickly taking a few orders and whipping them up before Sally and Anderson come out to take their place while they went to lunch.

 

\--

  
When Mycroft brings up the fact that John had bought Sherlock coffee as they walk home together later that afternoon, he calls it a “date”. Sherlock stops walking, scoops up a ball of snow, and shoves it down the back of his brother’s shirt before continuing on his way.


	2. December 2: Ice Skating

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review if so inclined! :) I love hearing your thoughts.

The first time Sherlock went ice skating, he was five years old. His brother loved to skate, entertaining far-fetched dreams of being a figure skater -- not that he’d ever tell anyone that. Sherlock used to watch his brother dance gracefully around the rink, looking more peaceful than any other time. He was jealous of that and decided that he wanted to try as well.

 

Needless to say, it did not go over well. He refused to get back on the ice after that.

 

The only thing that stopped his brother from going on to be a professional ice skater, was the broken ankle he received after landing a jump wrong five years later.

 

After watching his brother suffer through that, he decided he’d never go ice skating again.

 

And he didn’t. Until he met John almost twenty years after that.

 

They’d been living together for over a year now, and had gotten rather close. It was one night, as they were walking downtown after having gone out to dinner, that John saw it and made an excited noise. “What?” Sherlock asked, looking around in confusion.

 

“The rink is open!” John exclaimed and tugged on Sherlock’s sleeve, who followed in a bit of a daze as he wasn’t positive he knew what the man was talking about. It wasn’t until they were at the entrance that he recognised the place and dug his heels in. John glanced at him, stopping with a curious tilt to his head. “Sherlock?”

 

Sherlock shook his head. “I don’t ice skate,” he stated simply and stubbornly took a step back.

 

John’s expression turned incredulous as he blinked at the other man. “Are you afraid of the ice?”

 

“I’m not _afraid_ ,” Sherlock insisted, offended. “Don’t be ridiculous, John. I just don’t like to ice skate.”

 

“It’s okay to have an irrational fear, Sherlock,” John reminded him softly, but he was turning away from the rink in any case.

 

Sherlock scowled at him. “I do not have a fear of the ice. And it wouldn’t be irrational even if I did.” He turned and started walking toward home again. John hummed thoughtfully and followed him.

 

\--

 

He didn’t forget Sherlock’s reaction to the suggestion of ice skating. John pondered over it for days. In the first week of December, he decided to try again. Personally, he _loved_ to ice skate. He wanted to go, and it was always more fun with someone else. So he formulated a plan and, on the second of December, dragged Sherlock out of the house.

 

“Where are we going?” Sherlock demanded, sitting next to John in the back of a cab.

 

“Not telling,” John sang with an impish smile on his face.

 

“Tedious,” Sherlock growled and turned to the blond with the look he used to try and deduce a person.

 

But John had nothing to give him, so he continued to smile. “It’s no use, Sherlock. You’re going to be surprised.”

 

After a few more minutes of studying John, he huffed loudly and glared out the window. “Surprises are mundane,” he grumbled, but there was a note that sounded suspiciously like excitement.

 

John had never managed to surprise his friend before and he was feeling rather proud of himself now. When they stopped at a light, he turned to Sherlock with a blindfold and said, “Put this on.”

 

Sherlock stared at it a moment, unsure. He easily caved, though, declaring, “I know where we are now; I have London memorised. I’ll know where we end up.”

 

“We’ll see,” John teased and watched Sherlock tie it around his head. He checked the knot and made sure there was no way he could peek under or above the fabric. “Good.”

 

“Tedious,” Sherlock mumbled one more time, his hand reaching out for John, who took it in his own with a bit of his own surprise. They arrived at the rink without incident and John helped Sherlock out of the cab and into the building to turn in their tickets. Sherlock’s grip on his hand tightened minutely. John took their skates and led them outside to the rink. Immediately, Sherlock stiffened. “John, I told you…”

 

John shook his hand free of Sherlock’s grip and reached up to undo the knot of his blindfold, catching the fabric and pocketing it. “I know. But I thought maybe you’d give it a try with me this year.”

 

Sherlock stared at all the people, clumsily and gracefully making their way across the ice, and he shook his head. “I won’t.”

 

“Sherlock,” John took his hand again and smiled up at him. “I’ll be there the whole time. I won’t let you fall or hurt yourself.” He led a reluctant Sherlock to a bench where he coaxed him into the skates he’d gotten him. “If you decide that you can’t do it at any point, we’ll get off the ice and go do something else. But give it a try, okay?”

 

Sherlock stared at his feet, glaring at the blades of his skates. “I haven’t been skating since I was five,” he muttered, gripping the bench. “I fell and cut my forehead. When I was ten, my brother broke his ankle on a bad jump.” He glanced up at John with wide eyes. “Ice and I don’t get along much…”

 

John smiled gently and stood, taking Sherlock’s hands. “You haven’t tried with me around,” he told him and tugged him toward the ice. They stepped on, Sherlock gripping his hands tight enough that he feared for his circulation. “Hey, so far so good.”

 

“We haven’t moved yet,” Sherlock snapped, the shortness betraying a hint of anxiety.

 

So John pulled him along a few metres, encouraging him to shuffle his feet a bit to help them out. Before he knew it, they were halfway around the rink and Sherlock’s grip was loosening a bit. Something similar to a smile was causing his lips to twitch upward now and again. “Look at that!” John cried, causing Sherlock to snap his head up from where he was gazing at their skates. “Look how far we’ve made it, Sherlock!”

 

Sherlock cast a wary glance over his shoulder and then back at John. “I haven’t fallen yet,” he noted, a hint of his normal pride seeping through.

 

“I won’t let you,” John reminded him and let go of one of his hands, causing Sherlock to flounder a bit. “Hold up; I’m going to skate beside you for a bit. Let’s lengthen those shuffles a little.” He laughed at the indignant scowl on the brunet’s face. “You’re doing fantastic.”

 

They made a circuit of the rink and stepped off to stretch a bit before trying again. Sherlock’s confidence began to rise as they went along, and soon his shuffles looked less awkward and more effortless. “This isn’t so bad,” Sherlock finally told the blond grudgingly.

 

“You’re a natural, really,” John informed him, grinning up at him. “I knew you would be.”

 

Sherlock shook his head. “You’re stupid,” he huffed with no real bite to it. “I’m the most awkward person on this ice.”

 

John laughed. “Far from. You’re catching on brilliantly.” Sherlock turned his head toward him, a rather soft look on his face, as he smiled. “You’re brilliant at everything you do, Sherlock…”

 

“Not at this,” Sherlock said quietly as they slowed to a halt and faced each other. “You’re the genius on the ice, the one who got me here.”

 

“I finally surprised you,” John agreed smugly and Sherlock tossed his head in mock annoyance. “You’re welcome.”

 

Sherlock gave him a hesitant smile as he leaned down and kissed his nose. “Thank-you, John.”

  
John made a disgruntled noise and muttered, “You missed, you git,” and tugged him back down by his scarf for a _real_ kiss.


	3. December 3: Pictures with Santa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the support so far. I know that some of these stories are longer than others. Hopefully none of them disappoint, though!
> 
> Please review if you feel so inclined. <3

John is nervous. He doesn’t remember visiting Santa last year and the idea of sitting on his lap this year is rather daunting. He’s never met the man, after all. He peeks at his friend, Sherlock, who is looking around at all the decorations in the mall. “They all look the same,” Sherlock reports and turns to John. “Don’t they?”

 

“The decorations?” John asks, rubbing the back of his neck. “I think they’re pretty.” He looks ahead again, trying to catch a glimpse of Santa.

 

Sherlock stares at him and huffs. “You don’t have to be nervous, John,” he says, taking his hand. He’s actually a little surprised at him. John’s almost two whole years older than him, almost six, and he’s always much braver. “He’s just a man.”

 

“No, Sherlock,” John insists, turning to him with wide eyes. “He’s _Santa_! He’s a really _important_ man!”

 

Sherlock waves his free hand dismissively. “You’ve been really good all year. You saved me from the bees this summer and even helped your sister when she called you mean names. You don’t have to worry.”

 

John smiles, considering his words. “Thanks, Sherlock…” he mumbles and squeezes his hand a little. But then something occurs to him and he frowns again. “Not to be rude, but what about you?” Sherlock looks at him mildly. “Aren’t you worried about getting coal?”

 

“Nope,” Sherlock answers and continues to look around at the decorations. “Just because I poked the bees doesn’t make me bad enough to get coal.”

 

But John’s thinking of all the different things Sherlock did that year _besides_ poke a beehive. And, in John’s mind, he’s done a lot. He can’t imagine how his friend _won’t_ end up with at least a _little_ coal. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “You’re not even a tiny bit worried?”

 

Sherlock gives him a funny look. “Not at all,” he replies and points to the Christmas tree in the centre of “The North Pole”. “How tall do you think that is?” John shrugs, not really seeing the relevance of the question. “It almost touches the ceiling. I bet it’s over fifty feet tall! I could climb that.”

 

“Don’t you dare, Sherlock Holmes,” John snaps, a little bit panicked. He’d _definitely_ get coal if he did that! “You’d fall and get hurt!”

 

“You worry too much,” Sherlock laughs and tugs him forward a little. “I won’t climb it. At least not today.” He ignores John’s scowl.

 

They chatter a bit more as they wait, finally stepping up for their turn. “Who’s first?” the elf asks in a rather bored tone.

 

John shifts nervously and Sherlock sticks his nose in the air. “We want to go at the same time.”

 

“Sorry, kid, but it’s one at a time,” the elf tells him with a nonchalant shrug that makes Sherlock angry. “Who’s first?”

 

Sherlock puffs his chest up, still holding onto John’s hand. “Both of us!”

 

The elf looks irritated now, and is about to snap something, when Santa himself walks over and inquires, “What’s going on here?”

 

Sherlock turns to him, still fuming. “Listen here! Your elf is being dumb! My friend is nervous and I just want to go up with him and your stupid little elf won’t let us! I think he’s rude and mean and should be fired! He’s not being nice and we’re kids! What kind of elf is mean to _kids_ anyway!?” he yells, earning a few odd stares from parents around them.

 

Santa studies him carefully for a moment and then nods at the elf who huffs in annoyance. “Come here, both of you,” he says kindly and Sherlock pulls John along behind Santa. The man sits down in his huge chair and the elf next to him helps John up first, who reluctantly lets go of his friend’s hand. At some sort of silent signal from Santa, the elf helps Sherlock up onto his other side. “Now,” he turns to John, “what are your names?”

 

John’s eyes are huge as he answers timidly, “I’m John Watson and he’s my best friend, Sherlock Holmes.”

 

Santa smiles kindly and his eyes crinkle around the edges. He turns to Sherlock this time. “And how old are you?”

 

Sherlock does his best to seem unimpressed, though he’s very grateful that Santa seems to be everything the stories say he is. “I’m four and John is almost six.”

 

“Well, now,” Santa laughs and Sherlock’s facade fades as his eyes boggle at the sound. He even _laughs_ the way they say Santa’s supposed to! “And what do you boys want for Christmas?”

 

John grins, his anxieties seeming to melt rapidly. “I want a bike,” he tells him excitedly. “A blue one.”

 

“A blue bike,” Santa hums thoughtfully. “I’ll definitely have to look into that one. And what about you, Sherlock?”

 

Sherlock stares up at him, his mind blank for once. John kicks him lightly and he scowls. “I want a beehive I can study.”

 

It doesn’t look like Santa was prepared for that answer, as he flounders a bit. “How about something less dangerous?”

 

“I won’t get stung! I’ll need a suit to go with it but I won’t get stung!” Sherlock whines in protest. “I love bees, Santa! I want to study bees!”

 

The man looks thoughtful again, obviously trying to compromise. “I can’t promise a live beehive. But we’ll see what I can do,” he finally tells him gently and Sherlock sighs, resigned.

 

“Ready for pictures?” the elf who had helped them up asks, smiling cheerfully.

 

John and Sherlock both look over at her and the light flashes. “Have a Merry Christmas,” Santa says and the elf comes to help them off his lap.

 

Sherlock goes to the desk where the pictures are printing and a new elf appears. “Do you want your pictures?” she asks brightly.

 

“Yes. I have money for it,” Sherlock answers and pulls the bills his mother had given him out of his pocket. “John! I don’t know how to count it!”

 

John wanders over and helps Sherlock count out how much he needs for the pictures and they walk away with a folder. “Open it. I want to see the pictures.”

 

“I don’t want all these people seeing them,” Sherlock mumbles with a scowl as they make their way through the crowd. He can see his mum and brother waiting by a bench.

 

As soon as they make it to his mum, she snatches the folder with a smile and says, “Let’s see you two cuties.”

 

Sherlock groans theatrically while John bounces on the balls of his feet. “I tried to smile. She didn’t give me much time. Can I see?” He can see his mum trying not to laugh as she pulls the biggest picture out and so he looks at it, mouth dropping in dismay. John doesn’t hold back his laughter. “Your face, Sherlock! You look so scared!”

 

In the picture, John was smiling brightly at the camera. Sherlock, however, was staring at it with wide eyes and mouth agape. He thought he looked younger and scared and stupid in the picture.

 

“I wasn’t ready! I want a new picture! Take it back! Make her do it again! I want my money and a new picture!” Sherlock wails indignantly, trying to take the folder from his mum, who simply pulls it from his reach. “That was cheating! It’s not even cute! You were supposed to be surprised, too, John!”

 

John laughs harder. “I was surprised, Sherlock! But I smiled anyway. You’re cute no matter what you do!”

 

“It’s not cute!” Sherlock repeats, his cheeks colouring with embarrassment and anger. “I want a new one!”

 

“I think we’ll frame this one,” his mother says, completely ignoring her youngest son. And then, to his absolute horror, she shows Mycroft. “What do you think, Myc?”

 

Mycroft snickers and sneers, “I think it’ll look great over the mantle. Grandmother will have _fits_ every time she sees it.”

 

“You’re all so mean!” Sherlock pouts, crossing his arms over his chest.

 

John hugs him. “We think you’re cute anyway, Sherlock. It’s not a bad picture,” he tells him comfortingly, a bit of laughter still in his voice.

  
It doesn’t help much. Sherlock can’t believe he could look any stupider. He has full plans of trying to flush or burn the pictures, possibly both, before Christmas and his extended family arrive.


	4. December 4: Christmas Decorations (Competition Style)

John _loved_ Christmas. He loved everything about it. But, with a little less humility than he’d like to admit, he loved to decorate most. He could only afford a small flat in London while he went to school, but he enjoyed decorating the space anyway. And he was the only one to do lights outside his windows and on the railings. Plenty of the neighbors told him how wonderful it was to see him spreading his Christmas cheer with all the festive decorations outside his flat. He was proud of it.

 

And then he got the most obnoxious neighbor in the world. Right. Next. Door.

 

The young man was eccentric and possibly more “jolly” than John. He played Christmas music from the time he woke up to the time he went to bed. In November. And then it started -- the decorations. It was simple enough, really. He put a wreath on his door. So John met it with a grander wreath on his own door.

 

The lights went up on the railing next. John put out normal, yellow string lights. Later, his neighbor put out coloured lights. John put out the icicle lights over the porch covering. His neighbor put out flashing icicle lights over his porch.

 

John was getting frustrated. He didn’t really do much else than lights outside but he was sick of being outdone by this egotistical arsehole that had moved in. So he got a little blow-up snowman and stuck it on his porch. His neighbor answered the next day with a larger Santa.

 

Irritated, he put out some terracotta snowmen with some lights inside. He couldn’t afford much more, he knew. He hoped that his neighbor wouldn’t be able to come up with anything else.

 

But, oh, he did.

 

He put glowing, plastic reindeer on the porch covering. Then he took down his wreath and put up a new, bigger one.

 

John had just about had it. Who did he think he was? Why was he turning something that should have been fun into a competition? They hadn’t even met each other yet.

 

He decided to change that.

 

Squaring his shoulders, he marched next door and stared at that gaudy wreath that was covered in bows and silver glass balls. Taking a deep breath, he banged on the door beside it, watching with some satisfaction as it shook a bit with the effort he put behind his knocking.

 

A very tall, lean, man with a mop of dark curls opened the door. His eyes were narrowed when he first answered, but his expression quickly changed to surprise, followed closely by something akin to smugness. “What can I do for you?” he asked, leaning against the doorframe.

 

“What is your problem?” John exploded, annoyed by his calm demeanor. “Do you know how obnoxious you’re being?”

 

The man’s lips twitched slightly. “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he drawled, crossing his arms.

 

“All these decorations!” John continued, glaring at him. “I mean, look at this wreath!” He gestured wildly to the aforementioned object, hanging innocently on the door. “It’s hideous!”

 

“That’s rude,” the man interjected, managing to look a bit offended.

 

“It’s true, though! You’re just trying to out-do me, for some ridiculously obscure reason,” John huffed and crossed his own arms as well. “What’s your problem?”

 

The man pretended to think about his answer and then said, “Well, it got you to come over, didn’t it?”

 

John’s mind went blank, all his anger evaporating. “What?”

 

“I wanted to meet you,” the man informed him with a shrug. “I couldn’t care less about all these decorations. I bought them all on a whim, after observing your own decorations. Although,” he considered the wreath, “this is a bit much, I agree.”

 

“Wait, wait,” John stuttered, raising his hands. “You bought all these decorations, attempting to out-do me, just so I would come over here and meet you?” The dark-haired man hummed in agreement, turning back to him. “That’s insane. Most people just _introduce themselves_. Normal people, mind you.”

 

“If we were following normal people’s standards, you should have brought me a plate of cookies,” the man reminded him with an amused and self-satisfied smirk. “This was more fun, anyway.”

 

John scowled, but he wasn’t really angry anymore. “Pissing off your neighbor isn’t really the way to go…” He didn’t get more than a chuckle as a response. “Well… I’m John Watson.” He offered his hand out to shake.

 

The man took his hand and replied, “Sherlock Holmes. Since you’re here, would you like a cup of cocoa? Or tea, if you prefer?”

 

“Anything warm,” John answered gratefully and stepped in after him. “They really need to insulate this bloody hallway.”

 

“Insulating the building would reduce the cost of electric,” Sherlock agreed, shutting the door behind him. “But they won’t.”

 

John looked around the quaint, yet modern flat, and found himself gawking at the sitting room, “You really outdid yourself with all those lights,” he informed him, following him to the kitchen. “How do you sleep with that?”

  
Sherlock glanced over his shoulder at his sitting room, which had no indoor lights on but was still lit from the Christmas lights outside. “I don’t sleep much for starters. But I have black-out curtains to help when I do.” John really couldn’t help but laugh at that, which earned him a grin from his new friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty sure Sherlock's looking for "more than friends" here but that's okay, John.
> 
> Hope you're having fun. Please review if you feel so inclined! :)


	5. December 5: Mistletoe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is partially a result of the fact that my head kept changing the lyrics of "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus" to "I Saw Daddy Kissing Santa Claus".
> 
> Also, this breaks my attempt to keep the stories within their respective days. But this really couldn't take place on any other day. :P
> 
> Yay for a little canon-verse!
> 
> Please review if you feel so inclined!

It had been a hard year for John and his little three-year-old girl, Amanda. He and Mary had started drifting early in the year, kept close by John’s sense of loyalty and their daughter. They were both aware of his feelings toward his best friend, Sherlock, though neither were willing to admit it aloud. It had hung in the air between them for too long.

 

Then Mary had gotten sick, and, shortly after, passed away.

 

This left John to care for his daughter alone, attempting to grieve for a close friend and lover while struggling to come to terms with his feelings for Sherlock.

 

To his credit, Sherlock was like a blessing. He was there for John, for Amanda, and always for his work. Amanda had taken a liking to Sherlock from the moment he’d met her. It wasn’t until after Mary passed that she became just a little more attached. Which was fine with John; he trusted Sherlock and knew he wasn’t going anywhere any time soon. Sherlock struggled a bit with the role, though he did his very best and followed John’s rules about keeping family and Work separate.

 

Christmas was fast approaching, though, and with it a sort of mute sense of dread. It would be the first without Mary in six years.

 

Sherlock was bound and determined to make sure they experienced a _happy_ Christmas.

 

It was Christmas Eve and John and Amanda were in the kitchen, decorating all the cookies they’d made together.

 

“Are you sure we made the right cookies?” Amanda asked anxiously, spreading red frosting all over a star-shaped cookie.

 

“I’m sure,” John assured her, pausing his work to watch her. “He’ll love gingerbread this year. We gave him sugar last year.” Amanda nodded distractedly, wholly focused on the cookie now. He smiled softly.

 

There was a sudden thud in the sitting room and the two paused, looking at each other with wide eyes. “What was that?” she whispered, setting down the cookie and butterknife.

 

John set down his cookie and knife as well, turning toward the hall. “I’m not sure. Do you think maybe the tree got knocked?”

 

Amanda opened her mouth to reply when there was a loud laugh from the sitting room and she gasped. “Santa?”

 

“I…” John wrinkled his brow in confusion and stepped into the hall. “Wait here a moment.” He headed down the hall and peeked around the corner.

 

Once he got over the initial shock of what he saw, he laughed. Sherlock stood in his sitting room, looking as if he really had come down the chimney -- but that could have been his master masquerading skills at work. He was wearing a red and white suit and probably one of the best fake beards he’d ever seen before. A giant sack sat at his feet. “It’s okay, Amy!” he called over his shoulder.

 

Sherlock winked at John just as Amanda came down the hall and stepped in. “Oh my gosh!” she cried, tugging at the hem of John’s shirt. “Santa!”

 

“That’s right!” Sherlock was trying much too hard and John was doing his best not to laugh again. “Hello, Amanda…”

 

Amanda gave John one glance for approval before she dashed over to whom she thought was Santa. “It’s really you! I knew you’d come! Oh, but you’re early! We’re not finished with the cookies!”

 

Sherlock cleared his throat and gave John a helpless look. He clearly hadn’t planned for everything. “We’ll give him one or two later before you go to bed,” John told her and stepped into the room. Sherlock nodded in agreement.

 

“Why are you so skinny?” Amanda asked, quickly moving onto the next problem at hand.

 

“The idea that Santa is fat all year round is actually a silly myth,” Sherlock answered with a short wave of his gloved hand. “I only get fat this month because of all the cookies.”

 

“Oh,” Amanda huffed, biting her lower lip. “That makes sense, I guess…”

 

Sherlock sat down on one of the armchairs and pulled his bag toward him. “I brought you a gift, Amanda,” he said and reached into the bag, pretending to search for one in particular. “Have you been good?”

 

Amanda grinned and nodded enthusiastically. “All year! I promise!”

 

Sherlock narrowly managed to turn his normal chuckle into a very overdone Santa chuckle that John snorted at. “Well, here you are then,” he grumbled gently and handed over a small package. “The rest go under the tree.”

 

Amanda’s eyes got impossibly wider as she accepted the gift. “Thank-you…” She sat on the carpet and very carefully tugged the ribbon off, followed by the wrapping paper. The lid of the box came off next and she gasped with delight. “Daddy, look!” She pulled out a small digital camera and stood up quickly, throwing herself at Sherlock in a huge hug. “Thank-you!”

 

Startled, Sherlock gave her a one-armed hug in return and huffed, “You’re welcome…”

 

She hopped back down and went to John to show him excitedly. John nodded and smiled, just as surprised as she was.

 

After a little more visiting, Amanda made sure Sherlock had at least one cookie before she let John tuck her into bed. When John came back down, he found Sherlock in the kitchen, munching on another cookie. “Those are for Santa, you know,” he teased, leaning on the wall in the hallway.

 

“Oh, I know,” Sherlock answered, smiling. “That’s why I’m in here.” He finished his cookie and went to John, taking his hand and tugging him back toward the sitting room.

 

“Thank-you, Sherlock,” John whispered, following him. He knew Amanda wouldn’t be asleep yet. “This was really something, you know that? I really appreciate it.”

 

Sherlock shrugged. “I know. You both needed something fun and _good_. It’s the least I can do.”

 

“But it’s not the least you _have_ done,” John pressed as they came to a stop and his friend turned to face him. He took his other hand as well, smiling up at him. “You’ve been wonderful, truly.”

 

To his delight, Sherlock actually blushed. “Well, er, it’s fine. It’s all fine. I haven’t minded…” He brightened a bit and let go of John’s hands. “I didn’t forget you. I mean, there are more gifts for tomorrow, but I’m talking about your gift for tonight.” He turned to his bag and produced a long, slender package.

 

Curious, John took it and, with a lot less care than his daughter, unwrapped it. His smile widened until his cheeks hurt when he pulled the lid off of it. Nestled inside was a very pretty, and very real, sprig of mistletoe. “Sherlock, how even…?”

 

“Unimportant,” he muttered, waving him off. His blush was darker now. He shifted ever so slightly, something really only John could recognise as nervousness.

 

John pulled the mistletoe out and let the box fall to the ground. There was no way he was letting Sherlock back out of this one. Grinning mischievously, he reached above them, dangling the plant between his fingers. “And now it’s time for your gift,” he said, narrowly avoiding laughing at how corny he sounded as he leaned up. He tugged lightly at the fake beard, until it fell beneath Sherlock’s chin. After just a brief moment of hesitation, he closed the distance and pressed his lips against Sherlock’s. He was thrilled to find that Sherlock melted as he kissed him back eagerly.

 

“Daddy!” Amanda gasped from the stairs and John knocked his head against Sherlock’s in his haste to look over his shoulder. He rubbed his head as he stared at her perfectly scandalised expression. “What are you doing!?”

 

John glanced back at Sherlock, who was adjusting his beard and making it look like he was simply scratching the side of his face. Then he turned back to his daughter. “I could ask the same of you, young lady. You’re supposed to be in bed.”

 

Amanda did look a little guilty at that but simply stated, “I wanted water.”

 

“Trying to get a peek at your presents isn’t very nice,” Sherlock warned and John hadn’t seen Amanda move that fast in a very long time. His normal, deep chuckle resounded behind him.

  
With a sigh, John handed Sherlock the mistletoe and said, “I better get her that water so she has no more excuses. I’ll be back.” He winked, relishing in Sherlock’s deep flush, before going to the kitchen to get his daughter water. When he came back, he paused to look Sherlock over and critically asked, “Did you _really_ come down the chimney?”

 

“Is there any other way?” Sherlock drawled, smiling cheekily and waving the mistletoe at him.

 


	6. December 6: Snowman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, have some crap Potterlock. This isn't my favourite but at least I got it finished. I don't have a consistent work schedule so I had some weird shifts the past couple of days that made it a little difficult to get any writing done. Hopefully you like this better than I do.
> 
> Thanks for all the support so far! <3

“Do you remember that movie I showed you last summer when you visited?” John asks as they make their way from the castle toward Herbology. “About the talking snowman?”

 

Sherlock glares through the blinding snow. It’s coming down in sheets, making everything blur. “Vaguely, yes.” He adjusts his Ravenclaw scarf so he can bury his nose in it.

 

John moves a little closer; their arms bump and brush now as they walk. “I think about that movie every time it snows. Have you ever built a snowman?”

 

“John, is there a point?” Sherlock sighs, frowning at him. “I mean, I love listening to your memories from childhood and all that. But, really, it’s not nice to talk about the cold when you’re walking in the cold. Talk about a fire or something.”

 

John laughs and shoves him playfully. “You’re easily the rudest person I know, Sherlock Holmes.”

 

Sherlock shakes his head, snowflakes drifting from his hair to lazily joint their brothers in arms. “I didn’t realise there was competition. I better up my game.” He smirks as John’s laughter slowly dies down. “I never built a snowman, no.”

 

“You should,” John informs him critically. “It’s good for your soul.” They enter the building and shake their robes free from excess snow.

 

“You’re absolutely full of it,” Sherlock replies and heads for his seat, ignoring his friend’s whining behind him.

 

\--

 

The idea comes to Sherlock over breakfast a few days later. He finds several flaws with it but anxiously decides to try it. He rushes out the door before he’s done eating and before John can catch sight of him. When he gets outside, he looks around for a spot of snow that looks relatively untouched and wanders over to it. He considers how to best go about it and begins by making a small snowball, which he starts rolling around to make a bigger one.

 

That’s when it goes downhill a bit.

 

“Are we back in primary school now?” a snide voice calls and he stands up straight, cursing his lack of awareness for his surroundings.  Anderson and Sally, Slytherins and his enemies, wander over with matching smirks. “Could you possibly be doing what I think you’re doing?”

 

“A _snowman_?” Sally cackles, voice brimming with mirth. “How old _are_ you?”

 

Sherlock scowls at them and pulls his wand out, pointing it at the ball of snow he’d been working on. “ _Wingardium Leviosa_!” he says calmly and flicks his wrist in Anderson’s direction when he’s got the snow high enough in the air. “Just a snowball.”

 

Anderson is now covered in snow and sputtering angrily. Sally looks absolutely offended. He glares at Sherlock, whipping his own wand out and aiming it at him. “If you thought that was funny, wait until you start vomiting slugs!”

 

“ _Expelliarmus_!” a familiar voice yells and Anderson’s wand lands a few feet away. “Piss off, Philip,” John snaps, walking up beside Sherlock. “Don’t you have _anything_ better to do?” Anderson glares at him as he snatches up his wand and marches off, muttering insults at them as he goes. Sally huffs and follows him, adjusting her scarf as she goes. “You okay?” John asks Sherlock, turning toward him.

 

Sherlock rubs the back of his neck nervously. “Yes, I’m fine. Thank-you…” He tucks his wand back into his belt.

 

“What did you even do to him? I mean, pissed off as he was and covered in snow…” John asks, looking more amused now than concerned.

 

“Just threw a snowball at him…” Sherlock mutters, loving his friend’s laugh. “We better get inside for class... “ He ushers the blond back into the castle, plotting his next attempt.

 

\--

 

He doesn’t try again for a few more days. When he does, he goes to the edge of the Forbidden Forest. It takes him several hours before he’s satisfied with the results. But that means he can’t show John until the following day. He spends most of the night perfecting his spell under his blankets until he can’t think anymore. The next morning, he skips breakfast to try it outside and is thrilled when it works. Excited, he goes to get John.

 

“Sherlock, what is going on?” John laughs, stumbling as he follows his friend down the hill. “Are you alright?”

 

“Perfectly fine,” Sherlock answers with a grin over his shoulder. “I have something to show you, is all!”

 

John frowns at the direction they’re going and asks, “We’re not going into the Forbidden Forest, are we?” Sherlock shakes his head. “Then where are we going?”

 

“You’ll see,” is all Sherlock will say as they tumble down the hill.

 

When they reach the bottom, John stops dead in his tracks, completely surprised. “Sherlock… Did you do this?”

 

Sherlock smiles sheepishly, bouncing on the balls of his feet in barely contained excitement. “Yes, I did… Do you like it?”

 

Standing in front of them is a replica of the snowman from the movie John had showed him earlier in the year, “Frosty”. It even has the felt top hat on its head. Sherlock reaches into his robe, pulling his wand from his belt. “It’s amazing! It looks _just_ like Frosty!” John cries, circling the snowman in awe.

 

Sherlock points his wand at the snowman and mutters his spell, watching in triumph as it jumps to life and cries, “Happy Birthday!”

 

John takes a huge step back in surprise. “What the…? How did you do that!?”

 

Puffing out his chest in pride, Sherlock answers, “Oh, it’s a simple animation spell, really.” They watch it dance in a circle, singing the theme from its movie. It does a little bit of marching then stands still and cries, “Happy Birthday”, before dancing again. “It’s on a loop of sorts,” he explains, deflating slightly. “It’s all I had time for.”

 

“Is that your voice?” John asks, gesturing toward the singing snowman.

 

Sherlock hesitates and then mutters, “It can’t have its _own_ voice. It had to have a sample. So, yes, it’s mine…”

 

John grins and walks over to him. “It’s brilliant. Thank-you.” He hugs him tightly. “I can’t believe you did this just for me.”

 

Blushing a bit, Sherlock pulls back to look at him critically. “Of course I would. It’s an early Christmas present. You’ve no idea what kinds of silly things I’d do to see you smile.”

 

Somehow, John’s smile widens. “You’re such a teddy bear.” He takes off his Gryffindor scarf and drapes it around his friend’s neck, leaning up to kiss him softly. “A very cold teddy bear.” He wraps the scarf around his neck and the lower part of his face.

 

“Thank-you,” Sherlock mumbles into the fabric, gratefully using it to hide his deep blush. “You just kissed me.”

 

John opens his mouth to answer when the snowman does a wobbly spin and knocks into Sherlock. Both of them go sprawling but the snowman ends up breaking apart, burying Sherlock beneath it. John laughs, taking the top hat and putting it onto his own head before helping the other boy up. “Are you alright? You look like a drown cat!”

  
“I feel like one,” Sherlock grumbles, brushing snow off his front. “I was not as cold before as I am now. I want to go inside.” He ignores John’s laughter as they tromp back up to the castle, leaving the destroyed snowman behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I should probably stop ending stories with an embarrassed Sherlock... Oops.


	7. December 7: North Pole/Elves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could have picked a million ways to do this prompt and I picked a school play. -.-

John fiddles anxiously with his elf ears, staring into the mirror to make sure they’re on right. He knows that if he just stopped playing with them, they’d be fine. But he’s just so nervous, he can’t think of anything else to do.

 

“John, come on! Time to go!” his mother calls from downstairs.

 

This is it. Tonight is the school play and he feels like he’s going to throw up. He’s one of three people who have a short monologue and he wishes he’d passed his to Sherlock instead. Sherlock’s not afraid. He wants to be a star and he doesn’t even get a solo. He hunches his shoulders and trudges down the stairs.

 

His mother is waiting at the bottom and she beams at him when she sees him. “You look darling, Johnny,” she tells him and rests one hand on his shoulder, steering him to the car.

 

“Hey!” he cries when he sees his sister in the front seat. “It’s my night! Why is she in the front?”

 

“You can have it on the way home,” his mother replies and ushers him into the backseat. He pouts all the way there, trying to stay focused on his anger rather than his nerves about the play.

 

They arrive at the school and John takes his mum’s hand as they walk inside. “Is Daddy coming? Do you know?”

 

His mother purses her lips. “He said he’d try.” She doesn’t have anything else to say on the matter. They arrive at the auditorium and she gives him a big hug. “Have fun!” she tells him and he hurries off to the back where his class is getting ready.

 

Sherlock finds him easily and beams at him. “You look like a real elf!” John blushes slightly and thanks him. “Are you okay?”

 

John shifts his weight and shuffles his feet. “I’m really scared, Sherlock. What if I go out and stumble over my feet or stutter on my lines?” He glances away, frowning miserably. “You should have my solo. Can you do it for me?”

 

“What?” Sherlock asks with such shock that John looks back up at him. “No! You’re good at this, John! You can do it!”

 

“But you wanted it anyway,” John tries again, desperate. He’s getting more and more scared as the back room fills up with people.

 

Sherlock shakes his head. “Yeah, but that was before you got good at it.” He grins and takes the hat clutched in John’s hand. He pulls it onto the blond’s head and says, “You’ll do great. I know it. I’ll be behind you, in case you get stuck.”

 

John smiles gratefully. He’s really glad he’s got a friend like Sherlock. He leans over and gives him a big hug. “Thanks, Sherlock…”

 

“Oi, lovebirds!” Sally calls from the other side of the room. They pull apart to glare at her. “No kissing on set!” A few other kids laugh with her.

 

Sherlock shakes his head, a deep frown on his face. “I’d like to trip her on stage. Can I do that?”

 

“You probably shouldn’t but I won’t stop you if you do,” John answers and they giggle a bit, his nerves a low buzz in his stomach.

 

His teacher, Miss Molly, claps her hands and everyone gathers around for her short speech of encouragement. John feels his nerves ratchet back up and he wrings his hands together. It’s his grade that’s performing, the second years, and his class is second to perform. They’re all doing pieces of the same play, coming together in a huge mashup at the end. He almost wishes they were first so he could get his part over with.

 

They watch the first class go out and introduce the play. Some of the kids are just _kids_ , talking about whether or not they believe in Santa and the North Pole. Others are in the background, elves, watching a screen that shows Christmas spirit.

 

“It’s silly, isn’t it?” Sherlock asks, crossing his arms as he watches. John looks at him with raised eyebrows. “Do you think some of these kids still believe in Santa?”

 

John scrunches his nose. “You don’t?”

 

Sherlock stares at him in surprise. “You do?”

 

“Well,” John rubs his neck. “I got a big present last year. That bike, you remember?” Sherlock nods. “My parents couldn’t pay for it. I know it. My mum’s always stressed over money now. So it had to be Santa. Why don’t you believe in him?”

 

Sherlock shrugs. “There’s no proof,” he says simply, turning back toward the stage.

 

The first class wraps up their bit about how Christmas spirit is dwindling and John steels himself because he alone introduces the next part. Well, except, he gets to work with Mr. Lestrade, who is going to be Santa. But still.

 

The curtains close and everyone bustles about, getting the next scene together. Mr. Lestrade wanders over in his red suit and smiles at John. “Are you ready?” he asks kindly.

 

John feels his stomach swoop but he nods. Sherlock nudges him, grinning. “You’ll be great!” he reminds him. “And I’ll be behind you the whole time.”

 

John nods and takes Mr. Lestrade’s hand, walking to their place on the stage. The stage has been transformed again, this time to look like the North Pole, just outside of Santa’s workshop. Fake snow covers the floor and there’s batting all over the place to look like giant snow drifts. Huge candy canes are placed all along the stage, mostly as a reminder to where not to step. John finds his place easily and Mr. Lestrade lets go of his hand to get into his own position. John glances over his shoulder at Sherlock, who is slightly closer than he’s supposed to be.

 

The curtains raise and John looks up at Mr. Lestrade. As the applause dies, he tries to calm down and starts his lines, talking about the threat of no Christmas spirit. He sees Sherlock out of the corner of his eye, urging him on and sometimes making wild gestures that make the crowd laugh. Slowly, he finds himself not so afraid. He hasn’t even forgotten one word!

 

The rest of his class comes out and they talk about visiting the human world, who will go. The scene ends and the next class gets ready.

 

“You were great, John!” Sherlock squeals happily, tugging on his shirt. “I think you make a good elf. Are you really secretly one of Santa’s elves?”

 

John laughs, giddy with relief. “Don’t be silly, Sherlock. Of course not!” He hugs him tightly. “You’re a great elf, too. We should make our own North Pole at home.”

 

Sherlock bounces a little excitedly. “We’ll be the elves who save the North Pole from goblins!” he suggests, grinning madly. “And maybe we’ll even have to deliver the presents for Santa!”

 

“That sounds like fun!” John agrees and they huddle behind the curtain to discuss the idea further.

 

Miss Molly, dressed as Mrs. Claus, and Mr. Lestrade step out for their final scene. They talk about how it’s a miracle that the elves managed to make the Christmas spirit come back in full force. All the classes step out after that and have a sort of celebration scene, decorating “the workshop” for Christmas while Santa gets ready to deliver presents.

 

When the curtain falls one last time, there’s a huge applause and John takes Sherlock’s hand as everyone gets ready to bow. The curtain comes back up as everyone bows. John stares out at the crowd, picking out his mum and Harry. On the other side of the stadium, his dad is standing by the door. He glances at Sherlock, who smiles at him.

 

They walk together to find their parents after the final curtain call and John’s mum greets him with his coat. “You boys were fantastic!” she gushes at them. Sherlock blushes.

 

“Can Sherlock come over tomorrow?” John asks, shrugging into his coat as his dad comes over to congratulate them. “We want to build our own North Pole, and save it from goblins!”

 

His mum laughs and easily agrees. His dad pats his shoulder and awkwardly says, “You boys did a really good job. I recorded it, if you want a copy.”

 

“Yes!” Sherlock cries, jumping up happily. “I want to watch John’s mon...mona… His speech! Again and again!”

 

John’s parents both laugh. “I wasn’t _that_ great, Sherlock,” John mutters sheepishly. He smiles anyway. “Thank-you for coming, Daddy,” John says, hugging his dad’s legs.

 

“You make a really cute elf,” his dad replies, patting his head affectionately.

 

Sherlock’s parents and his older brother, Mycroft, come over and his mum hugs Sherlock before ushering John over for a hug as well. “You boys were so great!” she raves at them. “And you’re both such cute elves!”

 

“I’m not cute!” John says indignantly, standing up straighter and reaching for his fake ears.

 

Sherlock catches one of his hands and cries, “No, keep them on!” John glances at him. “I like them.”

  
“Okay,” John mumbles reluctantly. “I guess I can keep them on a bit longer…” Brimming with smugness, Sherlock crosses his arms and listens to their parents coo over them. John smiles a little to himself, tugging his elf hat lower onto his forehead as he feels himself blush a bit under the praise. He’s excited for his and Sherlock’s new adventures in the North Pole tomorrow, as elves that aren’t so cute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Miss Molly and Mr. Lestrade totally have a thing. :P
> 
> Please review if you feel so inclined!


	8. December 8: Snowboarding/Skiing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tbh, I got a little carried away with this. And French!Sherlock is my new favourite. I'm awful.
> 
> Also, I only knew, like, four of the French words I used. I apologise for any mistakes otherwise.
> 
> Thank-you for all your support! <3

John was not thrilled when he stepped into the building in Switzerland, glancing around. This looked much bigger than what his sister had told him it would be. He had expected small, not almost-Olympic-sized. He huffed, turning to Harry. “What is this?” he asked, trying not to be too angry. “I’m not good enough for something like this!”

 

“Oh, don’t be modest,” Harry dismissed, waving her hand  “You’ll do great, I know it. Mum and Dad helped me pay for this.”

 

He scowled at her. “Way to guilt trip me.”

 

It was the week before Christmas and his sister had registered him for a snowboarding competition in Switzerland. He hadn’t had a chance to look into it much and now he was regretting not asking for more information about it. He had been reluctant to go to begin with because of how close to Christmas it was.

 

Reluctantly, he stepped up to Registration, leaving his sister behind him. He felt like he was standing there for hours. Finally, he was second in line. Next to him, he overheard a very attractive man talking to his registration administrator, running his mouth in rapid-fire French. He didn’t sound angry, more annoyed. The person in front of him left and he approached the table. “Name and country? Sport?” the woman asked in a pleasant Germanic accent.

 

“Er, John Watson; UK,” John answered, a little more freaked out now with the idea that they had to have their _country_ as well. “Snowboarding.”

 

He watched her type something up and a little badge spit out of a small printer by her right hand. She took it and clipped a lanyard to it, handing it over to him. “Welcome, John! Have fun!” she chirped and he walked away, staring at his ID.

 

It was standard, no picture or anything of the sort. It had his registration number running across the top, a very ridiculously long number. With a resigned sigh, he draped the lanyard around his neck. There was a hesitant tap on his shoulder and he turned to find the attractive Frenchman standing there, fiddling with his own lanyard. “Excuse me,” he said, his words accented so heavily, it was a little difficult to make out each one. “You are here for snowboarding competition?”

 

John nodded. “Yeah, um, are you?” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his heavy coat.

 

The man shook his head. “ _Non_ , skiing,” he answered, reaching into his back pocket to produce a pamphlet of some sort. It looked useful and he wondered where he’d gotten it. He opened to one of the pages and showed it to John, saying, “It says skiers and snowboarders room together, _oui_?”

 

John took the pamphlet and turned it over a few times, hoping for an English section. Maybe not so useful after all. He flipped back to the first page the man had shown him and used what little German skills he had to translate what he could. “Well, sort of,” he finally said, scratching the back of his head. “They’re on the same floors of the hotel, yeah. The fourth and fifth are for us.” He handed back the pamphlet. “Why don’t they have a French or English version of that?”

 

“They did,” the man admitted, sounding embarrassed. “I was too hurried and didn’t pay attention…” He put the pamphlet into his back pocket again. John chuckled a bit at that. “Sherlock Holmes,” he introduced, gesturing at himself before sticking his hand out.

 

“John Watson,” the blond replied, shaking his hand. “Do you want to go find the hotel, then?” He assumed that’s why Sherlock had searched him out after registration.

 

Sherlock cocked his head. “Friendly faces come in handy, do you not think?” he asked in a sort of companionable tone.

 

John smirked. “Especially when we’re not competing against each other,” he agreed warmly. “I have to find my sister, though. She’s somewhere around here…” He glanced over his shoulder where he thought he’d left her.

 

Sherlock looked around as well, as if he knew exactly who he was looking for. Suddenly, he raised his hand and pointed, questioning, “Is that her?”

 

John turned around and stared where he was pointing. Harry stood by the doors, waving one hand in a rather exasperated manner. “That would be her,” he muttered and nodded. He started walking, Sherlock following dutifully. “You know what I don’t get about this competition?” John asked, glancing at the other man who gave him a curious glance. “Why is it so bloody close to Christmas?”

 

“The money, of course,” Sherlock replied easily, waving his question away. “Christmas presents from Switzerland; who would not buy?”

 

John laughed at that. “Me. I’m too broke as it is,” he said lightly, though he didn’t miss the odd look Sherlock gave him. “Sorry that took so long, Harry,” he apologised as he approached his sister. “This is Sherlock. We’re sharing the same floor so we figured we’d get lost together.”

 

Harry gave Sherlock a once-over, amusement making her eyes twinkle. “If you say so.” She stuck out her hand and introduced, “Harriet Watson. Nice to meet you. Are you up against John?”

 

Sherlock shook his head as he took her hand. “ _Non_ ; I am in the skiing competition. Two days from now.”

 

Harry hummed and gave John a suggestive look. “Oh, well, then I guess you two will get along _famously_.”

 

“Harry,” John warned, glaring daggers at her. She only flipped her hair and walked out of the building, leaving the boys to follow her. “Can I see that pamphlet again?” he asked Sherlock, who handed it over. He flipped to the back cover, where there was a schedule for all the different competitions. Since he was in the Alpine snowboarding competition, he was going to be on the slopes in three days. Sherlock, if he understood right, was probably in the speed skiing competition. He nodded to himself and handed back the pamphlet. “Thanks.”

 

Sherlock nodded as he pocketed the pamphlet again. “ _Pas de problème_.”

 

\--

 

When they arrived at the hotel, they both checked in on the same floor and wandered up together. Harry was staying with John in a twin and Sherlock was down the hall on the other side. Harry didn’t want to stick around the room, though. She didn’t have to prepare for any sort of competition and she was treating this as a vacation. Eagerly, she bundled up and set out to explore.

 

For a while, John sat around the room, considering what he was doing here. He knew he was lucky; this was a huge opportunity. But he quickly began to feel major anxiety, questioning all his tactics and the state of his board. Afraid of losing his nerve, he fled his room and hurried down the hall, deciding that getting anywhere but there was a better option.

 

A door opened near the end and Sherlock stepped out, surprising both of them. “ _Bonjour_ ,” he muttered, closing the door behind him.

 

“Can’t stop thinking either?” John asked, grinning. Sherlock shook his head. “I don’t know what I’m going to do or where I’m going to go but I can’t stay here.”

 

Sherlock hummed and then smiled. “Would you like to look at the slopes with me?” he suggested with a flourish of his hand.

 

John smiled as well. “That’s not cheating?”

 

“ _Non_!” Sherlock cried, looking offended. “I do not cheat. It is perfectly acceptable to inspect the conditions. Many do it.”

 

“Okay,” John huffed, raising his hands in defense. “Let’s go then.” He gestured ahead of him and Sherlock squared his shoulders, leading the way out of the hotel. “Have you competed here before?”

 

Sherlock shook his head. “I’ve never been to Switzerland before. I’ve gone to many other countries, including America, but not here. It is a...rather high-end sort of competition.”

 

“I noticed,” John grumbled, crossing his arms. He was suddenly thinking about his parents and how much money they’d probably put out for this trip and he wasn’t feeling much else other than cold and bitter.

 

Sherlock noticed and peeked at him. “They must care a lot,” he said softly, a note of hesitance in his voice. John looked up at him in surprise. “Your family. It was not easy for them to send you. But, you know, it will not matter if you win or not. They will be proud.”

 

“Proud or not, I won’t be able to pay them back,” John explained dejectedly. “I mean, I know that’s not really the point. They sent me here so I could have fun, I know. But, really, the money would be nice to be able to share with them. It would be great to get to pay them back for this, get them a few Christmas presents, stuff like that. And Harry, too.”

 

“True…” Sherlock said, frowning. “You are a very interesting person, John. Very humble and very…” He visibly struggled for a moment before settling on the French word for what he was looking for, giving John an apologetic smile. “ _Gentil_.”

 

John smiled widely at him, getting the jist of what he was trying to convey. “Ta, for that…” He rubbed the back of his neck nervously. “How did you know, though? About who sent me here and all that?”

 

Sherlock glanced away, looking a bit uncomfortable. “I simply _observé_ you,” he muttered, peering at him sheepishly. “Your clothes, the way you walk -- all _trés instructif_.” Nerves seem to steal his ability to translate into English and John finds it rather endearing.

 

“You just...read it off me?” John surmised, gesturing to himself. He couldn’t help that his smile widened. Sherlock nodded shortly. “That’s amazing. Brilliant, really.”

 

“ _Quelle_?” Sherlock asked, eyes wide in surprise. “Really?”

 

“Yeah!” John cried, astonished by his shock. “I mean, I don’t think I could read about your family off of you. All I can _guess_ is that you’re probably well off but I wouldn’t know if you grew up that way or if you’re just really good at your sport.”

 

Sherlock sniffed, trying his hardest not to appear pleased. “ _Merci_ ,” he said softly, smiling into his scarf. They chatted a bit more as they hailed a cab and headed for the slopes. Even though their competitions took place on different sides of the mountain, they wandered around together anyway. Their conversation only paused while they each looked over their respective slopes. They stopped on their way back to the hotel to grab a quick bite and laughed at John’s rubbish German when the vendor turned out to be French.

 

When they reached Sherlock’s room, they said awkward goodnights and John disappeared into his room quickly. To find Harry sprawled on her bed, looking smug. “Did you have a nice date?” she asked innocently.

 

His ears turned a traitorous red, he felt it. “It wasn’t a date,” he insisted and opened one of his bags to search for pajamas. He found what he was looking for and went to the bathroom to shower.

 

The next day he also spent with Sherlock, although less so because the man was beginning his preparations for his race. The following day, Sherlock was out practising for the majority of it. But when he was finished, he knocked on John’s door, wet and cold and looking rather desperate. “John, perhaps you could spare a few moments to come talk with me?” he asked, voice strained and accent absolutely impossible.

 

“Yeah, let me grab my boots,” John answered immediately, ignoring Harry’s snickering. He yanked his boots on and tromped into the hall. They headed down to the lobby and out into the swirling snowstorm. “Is everything alright?” he asked after a bit of walking.

 

For a few more paces, Sherlock said nothing. And then he huffed, “ _Non_. I am _désolé_. I feel slow on the slopes and _incompétent_. I’ll lose tomorrow…”

 

John laughed, unable to help himself. Sherlock looked absolutely offended, which made him laugh harder. “I’m sorry. But, I think we’re all afraid of that. We all feel our worst until we’re out there, doing what we do best. And then there’s possibilities, hope, and the adrenaline of the whole thing. It ends up being fun again. I haven’t seen you on the snow but I don’t have to to know that there’s no way you could lose. You’re way too stubborn.”

 

As Sherlock absorbed what John said, he too began to laugh. “ _Merci_ , John. I knew you would help.” John looked at him curiously. He muttered something in French, but when he realised that John wouldn’t accept an answer he couldn’t understand, he sighed, “I came to you because I knew you would know how to make me _optimiste_ again.”

 

John shook his head. “And we’ve only known each other for less than three days,” he huffed, causing them both to fall into a fit of giggles.

 

\--

 

John moved through the crowd by the slopes, watching the last jump where the skiers were supposed to appear. He knew he should be practising his runs but he’d gotten up early before any of the other snowboarders and had done a few. He felt like this was more important. He wanted to be able to see Sherlock’s face when he won.

 

He was a little early, from what he could understand. The skiers were only halfway through with the race. He shifted his weight a few times, blowing hot air into his cupped hands through his gloves. It was quieter down here than it was up the hill some; down here it was just mindless chatter for now instead of the chaotic cheering. He was excited for Sherlock, anxiety boiling in his gut _for_ him as he waited. He watched the hill, his nerves singing ever more loudly as the minutes ticked by.

 

And then the cheers started down toward him, followed very closely by a line of three skiers. Snow blew up under their skis, there was a soft whistle as they rushed past. He was fairly certain he recognised Sherlock’s suit in front and cheered loudly. The three crossed the finish line, five more following soon after.

 

John weaved his way to the finish to see Sherlock accepting his first place prize and gave a loud “whoop” that caught the man’s attention. Sherlock glanced up and grinned at John, moving through the crowd to greet him. “You came?”

 

“What are you talking about?” John laughed, because this whole thing felt so ridiculous. “Of course I did! I wouldn’t miss the chance to rub it in your face that I knew you could do it!”

 

Sherlock laughed as well, the sound full of relief and joy. “ _Merci, merci_!” he cried and hugged him. “You are truly _magnifique_ , John!” The blond didn’t answer; he simply returned the hug.

 

\--

 

John placed second. His ears were ringing as he unhooked his board from his boots. He was furious with himself. His technique had been sloppy and had cost him the points he’d needed to take home first. He picked up his board, intending to go back to his hotel room to sulk for a few hours. Suddenly, though, Sherlock was in front of him, smiling brightly.

 

“I thought you’d have gone home already,” John said stupidly. He _had_ expected that, really. He’d thought that once Sherlock had won, he’d be on a plane home.

 

Sherlock shook his head. “ _Non_ , I wanted to come see your competition,” he replied, still smiling. “I don’t understand why you got second. You were the best…”

 

John sighed and gripped his board tighter. “I wasn’t crisp enough on my turns. I almost wiped out on the second to last one.” His brow furrowed in frustration. “It was stupid mistakes.”

 

“Did you have fun?” Sherlock asked, cocking his head slightly.

 

John stared at him blankly and then slowly smiled as well. “I did…” He nodded, almost to himself. “I did have fun.”

 

“ _Bien_ ,” Sherlock said shortly, grinning. “Then I think you still won.” John laughed at him, grateful regardless.

 

\--

 

John’s bags were packed and he was pacing his room, waiting for Harry to come back from wherever it was she’d wandered off to. Their flight was in three hours and they still had to get to the airport.

 

He sighed, hand wrapping around the neatly wrapped gift in his pocket. He’d gone to Sherlock’s room twice that morning with no response. He assumed he’d left already and he rather regretted that. He’d hoped to at least say a goodbye of some sort. Perhaps Sherlock wasn’t the kind of person for that. It was probably better anyway.

 

John picked up his phone from the dresser and sent a message to Harry, asking where she’d gone. As he set his phone down, there was a short knock on his door. Surprised, he answered it with very little thought.

 

Sherlock stood on the other side, looking extremely nervous. “ _Excusez-moi_ ,” he mumbled, dropping his gaze to the floor. “Could I come in a moment?”

 

“Yes, of course,” John said, stepping aside to let him in. He closed the door behind him and blurted, “Thank God you haven’t left yet.” Sherlock gave him a surprised look. “I-I mean, I didn’t want us to just... _go_ … There had to be some sort of goodbye…”

 

“No goodbyes,” Sherlock stated firmly, expression rather severe. “I will give you my number, or an email, and we will keep in touch. You kept me sane and no one can do that. There will be no goodbye.”

 

John paused, a little astonished by his outburst, and then grinned stupidly. “Good. I… That’s… Good…” He fiddled with the hem of his jacket for a moment and then remembered the gift in his pocket. “I, er, I got you something. You don’t have to keep it, if you don’t want it.” He pulled the package out and passed it to Sherlock, who stared at it inquisitively as he accepted it. “It’s probably kind of stupid anyway.”

 

Sherlock frowned disapprovingly at him but refrained from saying anything until he’d opened it. Inside was a small blue snowboard keychain that made him smile softly. “ _Merci_ … A little reminder of you…” he whispered, obviously touched.

 

“That was kind of the idea, yeah,” John agreed, rubbing his neck in his normal nervous habit. “Like I said, kind of stupid.”

 

“ _Non_ ,” Sherlock argued, voice still quiet. “ _J’adore ça_ …” He pulled it out and examined it more closely before resting it back in it’s box. He set the box on the bed beside him and reached into his pocket. “I also have a gift for you.” He passed John an envelope. “Merry Christmas, John.”

 

John had a sinking feeling as he accepted the envelope. He opened it and pulled out a card, with a very simple picture of a wreath on the front. Inside, there was a short message about good cheer to him and his loved ones, with an even shorter message in Sherlock’s messy cursive -- except it was in French. But the gift itself was a cheque. A very large sum of a cheque. “What?” John cried, almost dropping the whole thing. “No! No, you can’t!” He shook his head.

 

“You did not win your competition,” Sherlock explained anxiously. “I know you need it; you would never ask. Besides, you were not wrong in your observations of me. I do not need the extra money. _S’il te plaît_ , I want you to have it. My gift to you. On one condition.” John looked up, slightly relieved that there was a condition. “You have to visit me. At least once.”

 

John grinned, tucking the cheque back into the card and setting it on the dresser. “You don’t have to twist _my_ arm,” he said, walking over and hugging him tightly. “I promise, I’ll visit.”

 

Sherlock wrapped his arms around him gratefully. “I will visit a lot, too. We’ll keep in touch, I promise. I will not lose someone as _spécial_ as you…”

  
And wasn’t that the most wonderful thing John could ever hear? He pulled back to look at Sherlock, still smiling goofily, and hesitantly kissed him. “Likewise,” he muttered against his lips.


	9. December 9: Christmas Tree

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say a quick thank-you for all the support this has received so far. All the reviews and silent kudos... I'm really glad that everyone's enjoying it so much!
> 
> That being said, I apologise for this chapter because it's so short. I tried my best but I had, like, 0 motivation to write yesterday and after work, I really just wanted to go home and sleep. It's mostly the fact that I knew you all were waiting for this that kept me going. 
> 
> This is more canon-verse, btw. I kind of hinted at that but I didn't get as in-depth as I had planned originally. 
> 
> Much love! 
> 
> Please review if you feel so inclined. :)

_John should have known better_ , Sherlock muses, smiling to himself. They’re at the tree lot, staring at all the Christmas trees. Well, John is. Sherlock is entertaining himself by frustrating the blond. He’s nitpicking every tree his friend suggests and he couldn’t be more pleased with the reactions. It shouldn’t be so funny but it is.

 

It’s not to say that he’s not picky because he is. He’s looking for a tree he’s not sure actually exists but he’s going to try his damnedest to get as close as possible. John can’t quite see the same vision, which is why he’s getting so exasperated by Sherlock. If he wanted a peaceful trip to the lot, just to grab a tree and come home, he really shouldn’t have brought Sherlock -- and they both know it by this point.

 

“What about this one?” John asks, gesturing to a rather marvelous pine in front of him. “It’s full, it’s dark green, it’s not bare on the bottom. I rather like it…”

 

Sherlock considers the tree carefully, inspecting it closely. “I suppose it will do…” he caves, mostly because he’s cold and he wants John’s spiked cocoa.

 

John stares at him in surprise. “Are you-- I’m not asking. I’m just getting.” He waves down a salesman and talks to him about the tree while Sherlock glances around, bored now that he has nothing to torment John with. After a bit of debating, John comes out triumphant and pays the man. The two of them collect the tree and take it to the car Sherlock borrowed from his brother. The salesman ties it down and thanks John before he walks away. John climbs into the car and Sherlock gets into the driver’s side. “Thank God that’s over with. I’m freezing,” he grumbles, rubbing his hands together.

 

Sherlock heads home, smirking slightly. “You can make cocoa when we get home, then,” he suggests and John mutters something in agreement. “I think we still have some peppermint sticks we can use…”

 

“One each,” John says sternly. “The rest are for the tree. We bought all those ornaments for it, we’re not eating half of them before Christmas.”

 

Peppermint is one of Sherlock’s biggest weakness and he fully anticipates most of the candy canes to be gone by Christmas, courtesy of him regardless of what John says. “Glass is hardly edible, John,” he reminds him dryly.

 

“You’re not funny,” John mumbles, rolling his eyes. “Are you going to be as picky about getting the tree decorated as you were about the tree itself?”

 

“There’s method to my madness, you know,” Sherlock huffs, with no real bite. “I’ll try not to be as aggravating about it, though.” And he does mean that. He knows that John can only take so much before it’s no fun anymore.

 

John sighs and smiles slightly. “Good. Maybe we can have fun decorating, then.” He settles back into his seat and they’re silent for the rest of the drive. Getting the tree off the car is much easier than it was getting it onto the car. They set the tree up and John went to get water to put into the stand, humming to himself.

 

Sherlock watches John bustle about, amused with him. “We’ll need to put the lights on first, and then the cranberries, followed by popcorn. And then we can put up all the ornaments.”

 

“In that exact order?” John asks, smiling as he fills the stand and sets the pitcher aside. “It can’t be lights, then popcorn and then cranberries?”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock dismisses with a slight scowl. “The cranberries are heavier than the popcorn. There’s too much risk in smashing the popcorn if we do it any other way.”

 

John laughs, picking up a box. “You’re preposterous,” he says, shaking his head. He sets it down in front of the tree and pulls out the lights. “These are a mess. Who did this?” Sherlock gives him a pointed look. “Don’t say a word. I don’t need your snarky replies.” He sits on the floor and starts untangling the lights meticulously. “Remind me not to do this again this year.”

 

“I’ll put them away after Christmas,” Sherlock says airily and sits on the floor as well, newspapers spread around him as he started stringing his cranberries. “But I’m not ready to think about that part yet.”

 

John glances up at him. “I’m surprised at you.”

 

“Why?” Sherlock hums, mostly focused on his threading.

 

“Since when have you ever cared so much about Christmas? I mean, I know the spirit is always there, the tradition but…” He lowers his hands.

 

Sherlock shrugs. “It’s our first... _official_...Christmas together. It means a lot more this year,” he tells him absently.

 

“We’ve had other Christmases together,” John reminds him and nudges him slightly with his elbow. “You’ll play those carols, won’t you?”

 

Sherlock looks up at him. “You bumped me and I poked myself…” John laughs. “Of course I’ll play my violin again. You’re ridiculous…”

 

“Sherlock…” John sets down the lights and moves closer to him, taking his hand. “What’s wrong?”

 

He doesn’t answer right away, instead staring at their hands with a deep frown. “I just want _one_ Christmas together that I don’t cock up. And this year, I just feel that pressure even more…”

 

John rests his cheek on Sherlock’s shoulder thoughtfully. “Then just don’t _try_. The more you try, as history has shown, the worse off you are. Just relax and have fun and enjoy this. All of this.” He waves his hand in the air. “I’m having fun just spending time with you, even though you made that trip to find this tree miserable for your own amusement.”

 

“I did no such thing,” Sherlock argues, attempting to sound offended and falling a bit short.

 

“You did,” John chuckles and looks at him. “It doesn’t take a genius to know when a child is acting like a brat for attention.”

 

Sherlock’s smile is slow but genuine and he even lets slip a deep rumble of a chortle. “I’m not a child, John…”

 

“You very much are and I love you anyway,” John states, ending any sort of argument. He kisses Sherlock’s cheek and moves back to untangle the lights. “I’m sure I’ll finish these lights before you’re finished with those cranberries, at this rate.”

 

“Was that a challenge?” Sherlock starts back on stringing the cranberries, smiling softly to himself. “Because you should know better than to challenge me.”

 

“Are you afraid of losing?” John teases, glancing at his partner out of the corner of his eye.

 

“Me? You should be,” Sherlock retorts easily, stabbing his finger again. “Bloody cranberries…”

 

In the end, Sherlock finishes the cranberries and half the string of popcorn before John finally untangles the lights and gets them up. He doesn’t comment on the way the lights slope slightly on the left side, and instead lets John help him string up the last bit of popcorn. They both end up with sore fingertips from the many times they pricked them with the needle, and a mess from all the popcorn they threw at each other instead.

 

Together, they put the string of cranberries and the string of popcorn onto the tree before diving into the ornaments. It’s a bit of a mismatch of colours and designs and they both agree that it’s the best tree 221B Baker Street has seen yet. They top it with a hand-sewn star from Mrs. Hudson and then sit down on the sofa with some peppermint stirred cocoa to enjoy their handywork.

 

“I think it looks nice,” John says into his mug, relaxing against Sherlock’s side. “Very festive…” Sherlock hums softly in agreement. “Thanks for being so picky about the tree. You were right about it.”

 

Sherlock smiles and rests his cheek on the top of John’s head. “You picked it out.”

 

“Stamp of approval from the pickiest tree shopper in the world right there,” John reminds him easily and snuggles closer.

 

“For a good cause.”

  
“Brat.”


	10. December 10: Sweaters/Jumpers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, no motivation. Work is kicking so much arse lately. DX Holidays. 
> 
> Also, yay for a (sort of?) platonic relationship, canon-verse chapter! I don't know what's up with all the canon-verse lately but okay. 
> 
> Please review if you feel so inclined. I love you all so much! :D

It’s that hateful time of year again when all the jumpers come out in Christmas colours and designs. And every time they pass a display of them, John says, “Oh, that looks so warm! And festive!”

 

Sherlock dreads it.

 

His mum used to make him wear the worst jumpers ever when he was in primary school and John has tried in recent years to do the same. In all honesty, he doesn’t mind any of them on _John_. Because John can make anything he wears look amazing. But all the jumpers he’s ever worn swallow him and make him look ridiculous. How was he supposed to be taken seriously when he was wearing a reindeer jumper?

 

Sherlock scowls at the shop window that has caught John’s attention, at all the stupid knit-sweaters that hug the mannequins so well. Rubbish. Misleading. He hates them.

 

“John, isn’t what we’re doing more important than all these jumpers?” Sherlock tries, annoyed. He tugs on his friend’s sleeve.

 

John glances at him reluctantly. “Yeah, it is. Let’s go.” He’s still smiling goofily, though, thoughts far from the case they’re working.

 

Sherlock studies him as they walked, finally asking, “Why do you like jumpers so much?” He should have asked the question ages ago.

 

“I dunno, they’re fun,” John answers brightly, shoving his hands into his pockets. “And quirky. I love quirky things. Surely you’ve _observed_ that?”

 

“Of course I have,” Sherlock grumbles, pouting. “But you wear them all the time, not just around the holidays.”

 

John laughs at that. “I’m an old man, Sherlock. Constantly cold. They’re warm and toasty. I’m a sucker for that.”

 

Sherlock huffs. “You’re not that old, John…”

 

They walk in silence for awhile, Sherlock’s focus moving back toward the case. “Why don’t you like them?” John asks, glancing around. “I’ve never seen you in one before.”

 

“I don’t wear jumpers,” Sherlock confirms with a short nod of his head. “My childhood is the culprit.”

 

“I’m fairly sure we can all trace our problems back to our childhoods,” John agrees lightly. “But you’ll never wear one again because of whatever traumatic experience you had?”

 

Sherlock glances warily at him. “It would take quite the attempt to get me into one again, yes.” He notices the look on his friend’s face and scowls. “Don’t get any ideas.”

 

“Ideas?” John asks too innocently. “Never.”

 

\--

 

He does come up with ideas, though. A lot of them.

 

None really work in John’s mind, however. He needs to have some sort of advantage and he can’t think of how to go about getting that. He wishes he knew the story about _why_ Sherlock hates jumpers, so that he could appeal to the brighter side of it. But Sherlock won’t budge, dodging all attempts at getting him to talk about it.

 

Then one day, he gets his inspiration. John goes to buy himself two jumpers and drags Sherlock along with him. He tries on two for himself and walks around suggesting a few for his friend, who shakes his head each time. “I look awful in these things, John!” he finally cries, exasperated.

 

John stares at him a moment and then pulls a jumper off the rack, shoving it into Sherlock’s arms. “Go put it on.” There’s no room for argument in that statement. So, grudgingly, Sherlock disappears into a dressing room with the chosen jumper. He reemerges a few minutes later in a dark navy blue sweater with green and white patterns across the chest and down the sleeves, somehow looking like vines with little flower buds and not managing to look anything but masculine. “You cock,” John spits, startled.

 

Sherlock stares at him in surprise, a marvelous change from the scowl he’d been wearing all afternoon. “What? Is it too small? Did I tear it somewhere?” He tugs at the hem of the jumper, inspecting it.

 

“You have no right to look that good in a bloody jumper!” John hisses, stalking toward him.

 

“And you’re one to talk?” Sherlock snaps, narrowing his eyes at him. “You look good in everything you wear! Granted, you’d probably look even more impressive without anything but…”

 

There’s a slight pause and John stops. “Pardon me?”

 

“Nothing,” Sherlock hurries to say and slips back into the dressing room.

 

Naturally, he buys it.

 

And, of course, John won’t stop teasing him about it.

 

\--

 

“My mum used to make us jumpers every year for Christmas,” John tells Sherlock one night, as they’re sitting in the living room eating Chinese and pretending to watch a Bond movie. His words catch his friend’s attention immediately, having the effect similar to a dog perking its ears up. “Awful things, really. She never really knew how to knit properly. But, god, they were warm. And we didn’t have a lot of money at the time. I loved every one of them…” He shrugs, a soft smile on his face. “That’s why I really love my jumpers. They’re like warm memories.”

 

Sherlock considers his words carefully before replying. “I had the opposite, really. A stubborn aunt who had it out for me, I swear. She’d bring me the ugliest jumpers. It wouldn’t have been so bad if I only had to wear them during the holiday, when family was around. That was fine -- everyone wears those ugly things around Christmas. No, my mum _demanded_ that I wear them to school when the holiday was over. I had to wear those awful things until the snow melted and jackets were acceptable attire again.” He rolls his eyes and rests his head on the back of his chair. “All the other students were idiots, you know. They made fun of all the sweaters, every time. Like they had nothing better to do…” He’s staring at the ceiling, the tenseness in his body the only give-away to his emotions. “I burned one into the toilet in the boys’ lavatory once. The fire alarm went off and I was suspended for a week. My mum was furious.”

 

John watches him as he listens, frowning. “Did it stop after that?” he asks, though he feels he knows the answer already. “The, uh, jumpers, that is.”

 

“None of it did, of course,” Sherlock answers with a dramatic sigh. “She thought I was going through some sort of phase and no one would believe me about the bullying. I refused my aunt’s gift the year I entered secondary school. After she threw a hissy fit, the whole affair came to an end. She only coldly gave me a card with money in it every year -- until I moved out for university and then she stopped putting in any effort at all. That was the best Christmas, really. She was a witch. My brother’s sister -- just like their mum.”

 

John sets aside his food, not really feeling very hungry anymore. “That’s awful, Sherlock…” he mutters, honestly feeling for him.

 

Sherlock waves his hand dismissively. “It’s over with. But that’s why I hate wearing jumpers. I always thought I looked bloody stupid in them, absolutely ridiculous. I’ve never found one that didn’t drown me.”

 

“Why did you buy the one I asked you to try on, then?” John ventures, hoping he’s not pushing any boundaries with this question. If the memories of them are so bad, why did he cave?

 

Sherlock takes his time answering this time. When he finally does, he sits up properly to look at John. “You liked me in it. You didn’t make fun of me. I thought, maybe, it would be different this time…” He gives John a severe look. “I won’t make a habit of wearing them, though. Don’t go buying me loads of the stuff because I won’t wear them.”

 

John smiles, amused with the thought. “I won’t, I promise.” He stretches a little and sighs. “I guess I’ll start cleaning up. Unless you wanted more?” Sherlock shakes his head and passes him his dirty plate.

 

\--

  
When John gives Sherlock an early Christmas present, Sherlock makes a big show of whining and complaining about it. But he wears it the whole day anyway, and even looks secretly pleased about it when he thinks John isn’t looking. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you were wondering, this is the jumper I picked for Sherlock's early Christmas present: http://www.asos.com/ASOS/ASOS-Christmas-Jumper-with-Snowflake-Design/Prod/pgeproduct.aspx?iid=5608100&cid=14622&sh=0&pge=0&pgesize=36&sort=-1&clr=Burgundy&totalstyles=87&gridsize=3


	11. December 11: By the Fire/Snowed In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm going to apologise in advance for the quality of this and tomorrow's chapter. Some things came up yesterday and I was unable to get much of today's put together. I have work today and I kind of rushed through this. Because of yesterday, I am now a bit behind. I'm determined to keep posting each day, but tomorrow's might be posted in the late evening due to work as well. Hopefully I can catch up again on Sunday and it won't be rushed and pathetic.
> 
> Thanks for reading, you guys. And thanks for your patience. :)

Sherlock’s toes were frozen. He was sure he probably had frostbite at that point. He tromped back into the cabin, carrying an armful of logs to set by the fireplace. John, Greg, Molly, and he were all staying at his parents’ cabin outside of London for the weekend, taking a well deserved break from school. And it was snowing -- hard. He was fairly sure it was technically a blizzard by now. Even with gloves on, his fingers were frigid.

 

He scowled as he dropped his armful of logs on the ground by the fireplace. Greg followed him in and set his down by Sherlock’s sprawling pile. “That could have been neater, you know…” Greg scolded lightly. He was a bit more amused by Sherlock’s pouty expression than he probably should be.

 

Sherlock glared at him. “I am freezing,” he stated with a huff before heading back outside to collect more wood. The three of them took two more trips out each and shut the door tightly behind them. “No more snow.”

 

“Sorry, Sherlock, but there’s tons of that out there,” John laughed, taking his coat off and shaking it out. “And there’s going to be some in here, too, for a bit.”

 

“Hateful,” Sherlock grumbled, as he took off his own coat. He set it on one of the hooks of the coatrack. “What good comes of the snow anyway? It’s cold and wet.”

 

“If cats could talk, they’d sound like you,” Molly informed him teasingly, bringing the boys hot cocoa. She set the tray on the coffee table, took a mug for herself, and settled down in one of the big chairs.

 

Greg settled another log in the fire before taking his gloves off and hanging them over the mantle. “Thanks, Molly,” he sighed, wrapping his hands around a mug. “Blissfully warm.”

 

Sherlock settled himself on the floor with his mug, glaring at the marshmallows as if they have personally offended him. “Do you know what I could be doing instead of this? I could be studying and reading and a million of other things. Instead, I’m freezing.”

 

“It’s a mini-holiday, Sherlock,” Greg whined, sitting on the other big chairs in the room. “Stop thinking about tests and what-have-you, and just enjoy time off.”

 

“Time off,” Sherlock scoffed, sipping tentatively at his cocoa. “This is a frozen hell.”

 

John chuckled, settling on the couch with his feet beside Sherlock. “Just relax for a bit. That’s the point of this trip. We wouldn’t have asked otherwise. You know that.”

 

Sherlock made an annoyed sound in the back of his throat. “It doesn’t look like we’ll be going anywhere any time soon, though,” Molly commented after a few minutes. “I mean, that _is_ a lot of snow…”

 

“Obviously,” Sherlock snapped impatiently. “It’s a bloody blizzard!” He took a deep drink of his hot chocolate, cringing slightly at how hot it was.

 

John sighed and leaned back, watching the fire. Sherlock might not be enjoying this but he certainly was. His muscles ached in a good way from helping Greg chop firewood earlier, and from bringing it in just a bit ago. He was slowly warming up, the heat of the fire filling the room. It was cozy, and he was with his favourite people in the world. “So, did any of you hear about Anderson and Donovan?” he asked because he wanted something silly to start the conversation.

 

“Off again,” Molly told him with a roll of her eyes. “Anderson took Christie back and even gave her a promise ring.”

 

“You’re joking!” Greg cried, grinning. Molly shook her head and both John and Greg burst out laughing. “Sorry, but who would even date that sleeze? He’s got a bad rep all through campus. There can’t be one person who doesn’t know what he did to Donovan.”

 

“I want to feel bad for Christie because we all know how it’ll turn out,” Molly agreed, looking amused herself. “But I can’t because you’re right.”

 

John shook his head. “It’s her own fault, whatever happens.”

 

The three of them chatted lightly for a while longer while Sherlock sulked on the floor silently. Finally, Greg stretched out and said, “I’m getting a bit peckish. I’ll see what I can’t cook up from what we brought along, yeah?”

 

“I’ll come help,” Molly offered and Greg smiled in that oddly soft way of his and agreed. They both disappeared into the kitchen and John was sure he wouldn’t see food for another few hours.

 

He turned to Sherlock and asked, “Any warmer down there?”

 

Sherlock glanced up at him, frowning. “No. And yes. It’s uncomfortable on the floor and I’m out of cocoa…”

 

John laughed and patted the spot next to him. “Well, stop moping down there and come sit by me for a bit. It’s more comfortable and warmer up here. Plus, body heat and all that rubbish.”

 

This seemed to amuse Sherlock a little and he set his empty mug on the coffee table before climbing up onto the couch. He curled himself into John, letting out the softest of contented sighs when the blond wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “It _is_ a bit warmer, yes.”

 

“Just a bit, I’d suppose,” John mumbled and buried his nose in Sherlock’s hair.

 

“That’s gross,” Sherlock complained without moving or really seeming like he minded much at all. “I haven’t showered yet and my hair is sad from it…”

 

John chuckled lazily. “It’s just hathair, you big baby. It’s fine. You worry way too much.” He leaned forward just enough to slide his mug onto the coffee table before pulling Sherlock with him as he laid down on the couch. In the end, John was on his back with both arms around Sherlock, who was laying on top of him and making minute sounds eerily similar to purring in the back of his throat. “Cozy, right?”

 

Sherlock hummed softly, watching the shadows on the floor dance. “It is oddly comforting, yes… It’s so silent…”

 

There was a pause and then John whispered, “But your head isn’t, is it? That’s why you’re having such a hard time here…”

 

“It’s busy in there, so many things to think about and consider and pick apart,” Sherlock replied in a small voice. “And nothing to focus it all on. Boredom does that, you know. Drives people mad. I could walk the halls of my mind palace but I’d be gone for hours and you’re never happy when I do that.”

 

John petted his hair as he listened, stroking down his back. “Let’s play a game,” he suggested after a beat. He could practically _hear_ the eye roll Sherlock gave him. “Hey, don’t be obnoxious. I’m trying to help.”

 

“I know,” Sherlock muttered into his boyfriend’s shirt. “What kind of game?”

 

“A brain game,” John answered, racking his own brain for something. He was making this up as he went and he was fairly certain “I spy” wouldn’t work -- even if it did, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know what kinds of things Sherlock would “spy”. He sighed softly and said, “Let’s play a memory game. You’ll still have to go to your mind palace, probably, but you can’t stay there.”

 

Sherlock glanced up at him, intrigued. “What kind of memory game makes you think I’d have to go to my mind palace to win?”

 

John flicked the back of his head. “It’s not a win or lose sort of game, Sherlock. It’s a Christmas memory game. Although, if you wanted to make it win or lose, I bet I can come up with more of my Christmas memories than you can.”

 

Sherlock scoffed. “I store memories like records and you think I’d lose?” He settled back down. “You start.”

 

“Okay, let’s see…” He closed his eyes and started, “I remember one of my first Christmases, probably around three, and I was helping my mum make cookies for Santa. Well, more make a mess. I can still see the look on her face -- smiling with so much strain, like she fully regretted ever letting me near red frosting.”

 

Sherlock chuckled at that, the sound vibrating through John. “I remember a Christmas when I was about four or so… Mycroft was telling me all about Father Christmas. He wasn’t a huge arse back then, though he still had illusions of grandeur. He was wearing a Santa hat and had a book tucked under his arm, one that he probably intended on reading to me. But I remember getting so upset about the idea of being naughty or nice and I was sure I was going to get coal in my stocking. I just sat on the floor and cried and he was panicking as he tried to convince me that I was going to have a good Christmas.”

 

“Too bad you don’t care about being naughty or nice now,” John joked, though he was imagining a tiny Sherlock, with childish fears, and his heart melted.

 

“No such thing,” Sherlock grunted. “It’s your turn.”

 

“Well, there was the year that Harry wanted to roast chestnuts by the fire, just like the song,” John tried, grinning. “So my mum made this fake fireplace and bought some chestnuts that she roasted in the oven and we all pretended to sit around the fire together and Harry was thrilled.”

  
Sherlock smiled a bit at that, but was silent for several minutes after. “I was about seven the year that Mycroft decided to take his and my stockings to his room so we could open them together,” he said finally. “I thought it was the greatest thing for a very long time, until I realised he was just trying to control the situation -- opening the stockings on his terms and all that.”

 

They exchanged memories back and forth for quite awhile, Sherlock begrudgingly admitting he’d had to go on a search for some in his mind palace a few times. Eventually, they both fell asleep together on the couch, Sherlock’s now warm fingers intertwined with John’s as the fire roared on. Greg came to add to it once before he and Molly disappeared into one of the bedrooms for the night.

  
And outside, the storm raged on, oblivious to the fact that the occupants in the cabin were blissfully unaware of it.


	12. December 12: Secret Santa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure that the gift Sherlock gives John actually exists because I did spend some time looking. I just didn't have hours to search for it. 
> 
> I kind of always see Sherlock as a hoarder of money, which is why he can splurge when he does. Just a headcanon there. And I believe that John would be a full back in rugby, just so you know. 
> 
> Also, you have no idea how close I was to making this the Christmas carols chapter and specifically having it "12 Days of Christmas". :P But, alas, this is what I decided on instead.
> 
> Hope it's okay. Thanks for all your patience and love! Love you all! <3 Please review if you feel so inclined.

The bell rings loudly, causing Sherlock to visibly flinch. He’s settled in the back of the room, staring hatefully at the small stage. His teacher, Mrs. Hudson, is bustling about happily humming Christmas carols while the rest of the class chats anxiously. “Yoo-hoo!” she calls at last and the class quiets down instantly. “We’re going to start a very fun project today! And it requires full participation!”

 

There’s soft murmurs through the room, everyone interested now. She starts passing out small pieces of papers to everyone, explaining, “I need everyone to fill this out and write your name on the back. I’ll explain the rest when you’re done.”

 

Once everyone has their paper, they all start scribbling on it. Sherlock stares at his. It’s a little slip asking general questions of their interests and favourite colours and such. He has a sneaking suspicion of what it’s for but he dutifully fills it out and writes his name on the back. “Okay, when you’re done, fold them up with your name on the inside, and set them in this basket right here,” Mrs. Hudson says, gesturing to the basket sitting on her desk.

 

A few people stand and drop their papers into the basket. Sherlock scowls as he gets up and sets his into the basket as well, leaning forward to whisper to his teacher, “I can’t do this, Mrs. Hudson. I’ll be laughed at.”

 

Mrs. Hudson smiles gently at him and pats his arm. “Trust me, Sherlock. You’ll be fine. I promise.” He huffs and turns, marching back up to his seat. Once everyone has put their papers in the basket, she mixes it up, humming again. “We only have a few days before the Christmas holidays so I thought we’d have a bit of fun. We’re going to do Secret Santas this year!” A few kids groan goodnaturedly but Sherlock is still scowling darkly. “So I’ll go down the list and everyone come draw a name.” She goes alphabetical by last name.

 

Sherlock wanders down when his name is called and plucks a paper from the basket. “If he gets my name, I demand a redraw,” Sally calls and a few kids snicker.

 

“Why don’t you just shut your mouth, Donovan?” John yells back, turning in his seat to do so. “It’s a bloody _holiday_ , so stop being a brat for a couple of weeks, why don’t ya?”

 

“Oh, hush up!” Mrs. Hudson finally scolds, looking perfectly scandalised. Sherlock gives her a grateful smile as he opens his paper and immediately frowns again. He grips the paper tightly and walks back to his seat.

 

“Thank-you,” Sherlock whispers to John as he passes. He doesn’t know why the boy defends him sometimes -- they barely know each other beyond names. John beams up at him and Sherlock scurries to his seat. He peeks at the name again and bites his lip. This is going to be stressful.

 

“You have five days until the exchange,” Mrs. Hudson announces and Sherlock sinks in his seat. “Be creative and _have fun_!”

 

\--

 

Finding the perfect gift is not fun, Sherlock decides. Because it’s _John_ and _nothing_ seems appropriate. All he had was a short list of clues and the only thing he was coming up with to match it all is a giant teddy bear. And something tells him that the rugby captain would not really appreciate getting such a gift in front of the entire drama class.

 

Eventually, he finally finds something worth giving to the boy and anxiously purchases it for him, cringing only slightly at the state of his bank account afterwards. He takes extra care in wrapping it, using blue wrapping paper and purple ribbon as they were stated as his favourite colours on his slip.

 

When the day comes to exchange gifts, he sticks the box in a grocery bag to protect it from the snow. His heart is in his stomach. This whole thing is stupid and he’s going to be laughed at. What if he was wrong in his observations and England wasn’t his favourite team? He shook his head in frustration, annoyed with himself. John won’t laugh at him -- at least not in front of everyone else.

 

The day drags until drama class. He takes his seat in the back, tucking the gift under his desk with care. The classroom is noisier than usual, everyone anxiously talking to each other about the exchange or trying to avoid talking about it because they were equally freaked out by the idea. Finally, though, the bell rings and Mrs. Hudson waltzes to the front of the classroom. “Well, this is it! The last day before your Christmas holiday starts. How exciting, isn’t it?” she gushes with a wide smile on her face. Everyone murmurs their agreement. “Now, today, we’re just going to have fun. We’ll play some improv games and I brought some cookies and eggnog for everyone to enjoy. But, first, since I know none of you are going to be able to have _any_ fun until it’s done, let’s have the gift exchange. Nothing fancy or orderly. Secret Santas, let’s give our gifts!”

 

It feels a bit chaotic at first; everyone gets up and goes to find their person, sometimes having to wait for the other person to give their gift to someone else first. Sherlock stays in his seat, too nervous to acknowledge that, logically, the best time to give John his gift is in this mess.

 

Before he can get his nerves up, though, John is suddenly standing in front of him. “Er, Merry Christmas, Sherlock…” he mumbles, passing him a small package.

 

Sherlock blinks as he takes it, almost missing John trying to walk away. “Wait!” he calls as John steps down. The blond turns back curiously as Sherlock pulls his gift from under his desk. “I was your Secret Santa, too,” he explains hurriedly, pulling the package from the bag and offering it to John. “Merry Christmas…”

 

John stares at it quizzically a moment before stepping back up and taking it. He glances on either side of Sherlock before taking a seat at the desk next to him. “Well, then we might as well open them together, yeah?” John asks awkwardly, grinning lopsidedly.

 

He hadn’t been planning on that. He’s almost afraid of John’s reaction. It isn’t as though his gift had been cheap and he doesn’t want John to feel outdone. But, reluctantly, he sits back down and nods. He pulls at the candy-cane ribbon, deciding to save it because it really is pretty. The snowman wrapping paper, however, he isn’t afraid to tear at. When he pulls the last of the paper off, he lets out a soft gasp, honestly touched. It’s a CD of violin music. He flips it over to look at all the songs and smiles. They aren’t well known songs, like most stores would sell. They’re specific to the violin and he loves it. “Thank-you,” he says, turning to John who is staring dumbly at his open gift.

 

John glances up at Sherlock, his mouth still hanging open and Sherlock feels his insides tighten. “This isn’t real, is it?” John asks, because he apparently really doesn’t believe it.

 

“It’s real,” Sherlock answers quietly. “Hard to find but real.” He bites his lip and waits for the rest of the reaction.

 

“You got me _Max Marlins’s_ jersey?” John screeches, a bit loudly because some of the other boys look up at them curiously. He pulls it out of the box and looks it over. “This is amazing, Sherlock!”

 

Sherlock huffs, his cheeks colouring slightly. “It’s nothing spectacular, really…” he mutters, secretly pleased that the blond obviously likes his gift.

 

“No, this is honestly one of the best gifts I’ve ever gotten,” John tells him with such conviction that Sherlock blushes deeper. “Thank-you so much.” He sets it back in his box as a few of the other rugby players in their class come over to admire it.

 

Sherlock ignores them as he admires his CD a little longer before packing it away carefully. He gets up and goes to the snack table, grabbing a few cookies and a cup of eggnog. On his way back, though, he stops and softly asks Mrs. Hudson, “How did you do it?”

 

“Do what, dear?” she asks, her eyes twinkling mischievously.

 

He sighs and shakes his head. “Never mind…” He goes back up to his seat and settles down, offering a cookie to John now that some of his crowd has cleared a bit.

 

“Ta,” John says amiably as he accepts the snickerdoodle. “The guys are super jealous. I don’t know if I’m ever going to wear this. It’s probably going on my wall.”

 

Sherlock wrinkles his nose. “What a waste,” he mumbles, munching on a gingerbread man. John looks at him in surprise. “It’s a _jersey,_ right? Don’t you use them in training and such?”

 

John’s eyes widen. “Are you kidding? I’m not getting this grass stained! I can’t even imagine how much it cost you!”

 

“Don’t worry about that,” Sherlock snaps with a frown. “I could have paid a penny for all you know. You can do what you will with it. But I equate sticking it on your wall as the same as me framing this CD without ever listening to it. Pointless. A waste. It’s for enjoyment.”

 

Slowly, John smiles. “Yeah, I guess… I just… This just doesn’t seem the same as a CD…” He touches the material fondly.

 

“It’s your gift, John. Do with it what you will,” Sherlock reminds him as he finishes his cookie. “Mrs. Hudson made all these cookies, you know…”

 

John chuckles. “You need help with conversation starters.” Sherlock glances at him with a raised eyebrow, blushing at the fond look he receives. “Do you want to come over after school today? We can bake our own cookies for the neighbors or something.”

 

“Charity work,” Sherlock scoffs but he smiles. “I go up to the senior centre every year and give them fruitcakes and cookies…”

 

“You do that sort of stuff?” John asks in surprise, stealing another of Sherlock’s cookies. The brunet nods. “I would never have pegged you as that sort of guy…”

 

Sherlock shrugs. “It’s the Christmas spirit, I suppose. Makes us do crazy things.”

 

John shakes his head. “Yeah, let’s do that. I’ve never made fruitcake before, though. I had an aunt who did and she wasn’t good at it -- they were bricks.”

  
“Mine are never ‘bricks’, John. It’s all in how it’s made,” Sherlock informs him and begins to enthusiastically explain the mistakes most people make when the bake fruitcake. In the back of his mind, he still wonders at Mrs. Hudson’s power to create this situation and silently thanks her.


	13. December 13: The Nutcracker Ballet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apoligise for how late this one is! D: 
> 
> I hate this one so much, though. I went through two other scraps for different prompts and settled on this one and I still dislike it. But, since it's 7:30 at night, I have no choice but to simply post it.
> 
> I hope you all like it more than I do. :P

The first time John went to London, his parents had surprised Harriet with tickets to the Nutcracker ballet. She was really into ballet at the time, though she couldn’t dance to save her life. Of course, ten year old John whined and complained all the way to the theatre. He had zero interest in the whole affair. Why couldn’t they have bought tickets to the hockey game the following night? _Next year_ , they said.

 

He had settled down with a sulky expression on his face, fully prepared to be bored out of his mind. And, until the curtain rose, he was bored. The music made him fidgety and mother kept tapping his hand to remind him to hold still.

 

Then, suddenly, the curtain rose and he was entranced. He had a bit of a hard time following the story, confused by all the big gestures and all the people. But the footwork had his full attention. It was all different, quick, sharp. There wasn’t one misstep that he could see. He leaned forward in his seat, eyes wide as he soaked it all in.

 

He never forgot the performance, though he still didn’t understand his sister’s fascination with it.

 

The years wore on and, as they did, Harriet lost her interest in ballet. John got more involved in hockey, though his parents never did take them back to London for a game. After secondary school, John signed up to go into the army to help pay for university, since the schools he wanted to attend didn’t have hockey scholarships.

 

The second time he went to London was on leave while he was in the army a few years later. He talked his friend, Mike Stamford, into taking his wife and going to the ballet with him while they were there. They went in the summer and the theatre was playing Jekyll and Hyde, which he didn’t like nearly as much, but still enjoyed.

 

John got shot the following year and was honorably discharged.

 

He was devastated.

 

He couldn’t do anything anymore; he felt so useless.

 

His sister surprised him with a ticket to the Nutcracker as an early Christmas present. _To cheer you up a bit_ , she’d told him awkwardly. He’d taken it without much complaint, deciding that he rather liked the idea of going alone this time.

 

The night of the ballet, he put on his best suit and went with the intention of enjoying himself.

 

The theatre was packed, which was no surprise, really. He found his seat and settled in to watch the first act. He’d learned to appreciate the music a bit more so he listened to it happily as he waited for the curtain to rise.

 

It was like the first time he’d seen the ballet all over again. It was magical and he was on the edge of his seat the whole time. The footwork was brilliant and he couldn’t get over how amazing it was. He could follow the story a bit better this time, though he still got lost somewhere in the second act.

 

When they paused for the last intermission, he stood and stretched. The Nutcracker had, obviously, changed. And this man was gorgeous. He had perfect technique and easily outshone the girl he danced with. The man was dancing circles in his head still.

 

The third act came and went with John on the edge of his seat, eyes wide, and mouth hanging slightly. He was sure he looked ridiculous but he loved this ballet and his attention was fully captured by the gorgeous Nutcracker.

 

The cast came out and took their final bows, graciously accepting the overly-enthusiastic applause from the audience.

 

John stuck around for a bit after the theatre started clearing. He wandered around toward the backstage area but got denied access before he even tried going in. Instead, he headed outside and toward the back of the building. He wasn’t actually expecting to bump into any of the crew. He kind of just wanted to get a glimpse of them off-stage. He felt a bit stupid, like a guilty child doing something they knew better than to do. But he wasn’t ready to go home yet and he missed doing dumb things -- his life had pretty much been made of that.

 

The last thing he expected was to run into the Nutcracker himself.

 

The man was leaning beside the backstage door, taking deep gulping breaths of cold air. He was still in his unitard, which John had found were costumes that never left anything to the imagination, and his frame shook slightly now and again with what he assumed was a chill. The man looked up at his approach, eyebrows raised. “You came?”

 

“Pardon?” John mumbled, staring at him with a wrinkled brow. “Do I know you?”

 

“Not particularly…” the man admitted, pushing off the wall and pulling open the door. “Come inside? It’s snowing.”

 

John glanced around him, humming softly. “So it is…” He followed the man backstage and down a hall into his dressing room. The door was shut tightly behind them. “Why am I here?”

 

“You’ve wanted to come for years since you first saw the Nutcracker when you were ten, haven’t you?” the man asked, grabbing a very warm looking dressing gown and wrapping himself up in it. “I remember you. Obviously you’d never remember me. I was just a little boy myself.”

 

John studied him, trying to draw something up that would give him a clue as to who this man was. Then he caught his eyes and drew a sharp intake. “You.”

 

Oh, it had been in passing, something John had never dwelled much upon over the years. The first time he’d gone to the ballet, he’d run into a little boy, someone a few years younger than even himself, during the intermission. He’d gone to the lobby with his sister to find a bathroom and get a drink but had gotten a bit lost.

 

_“Excuse me,” John had mumbled politely, reaching a hand down to help the boy up. The boy was dressed in one of the toy soldier costumes and he looked rather startled. He had dark hair and brilliantly bizarre eyes._

_But the boy had smacked his hand away and pushed himself up. “You should watch where you’re going! What are you doing back here, anyway? This is for the cast only!”_

_John had stepped back, surprised. “Oh, I’m sorry. I… I was looking for the restroom…” He had glanced around, hoping for a sign he had somehow missed. “Do you…?”_

_“It’s that way,” the boy had snapped before stalking off._

 

He had appeared in the next ballet, too, though not as a performer. He was in the back of the audience, and had caught his eye when John was on his way out. They hadn’t said anything, and John wasn’t sure he’d actually recognised him at the time. He saw him clearly in his memory now.

 

John shivered slightly, though it wasn’t from being cold. “You remember me from that long ago?”

 

“So do you,” the man sniffed, though he didn’t look as offended as he seemed to be trying to appear. “I couldn’t help it. You were interesting, and you just stuck in my head…” He seemed to remember something and stuck his hand out. “Sherlock Holmes. It’s nice to officially meet you.”

 

John shook his hand with a smile. “John Watson. You grew up nicely.” He mostly meant the attitude but he couldn’t help the once-over he gave the man anyway.

 

Sherlock flushed dark red. “Not really. I’m still a brat. Just a better trained one.” He gestured to one of the chairs by his dressing table. “I am sorry about our first meeting. It was my first performance and I was extremely nervous.”

 

“You upgraded, I see,” John dismissed as he took the offered seat. “A toy soldier to the Nutcracker…”

 

“It wasn’t easy,” Sherlock told him, pulling up a chair himself. “But, er, I saw you once after that. You were on leave and you saw whatever performance was going on at the time.”

 

“Jackyll and Hyde,” John reminded him, because it felt important to him at least.

 

Sherlock nodded. “Yes, that one. How did you end up in the army?” He was talking as if they’d known each other for years and had somehow managed to simply drift apart.

 

John thought about their current situation and considered Sherlock a moment. “I wanted to go to school and the schools I wanted to attend didn’t have a hockey scholarship…”

 

“You became a doctor, though?” Sherlock asked, as if this was extremely vital. John nodded, feeling a bit dizzy. How did one even end up in the dressing room of a professional ballerino? “I can tell because you’ve been wanting to ask if I was warm enough since you saw me standing outside.”

 

“ _That’s_ how you can tell?” John blurted, jaw slack. “How would you even know that?”

 

“It’s written on your face,” Sherlock muttered, the flick of his eyes the only tell that he was nervous.

 

“Sherlock, wow, that’s…” John struggled a moment. “This whole thing is amazing. Your memory, what you just did there…” He beamed at him. “Incredible!”

 

Slowly, Sherlock smiled. “You think?”

 

“Yes!” John exclaimed just as there was a knock at the door.

 

“That would be my cue to get ready for the next performance…” Sherlock sighed and stood. “Would you like to see it again?”

 

John wanted to, badly. Especially now that he’d met the Nutcracker himself. “I don’t have a ticket anymore…”

 

“I happen to know that there will be a vacant seat on the balcony tonight,” Sherlock told him in a secretive tone. “Besides, I’d like to take you to dinner afterwards. When I’m out of this unitard, of course.”

 

John smirked, leaning forward a bit. “I rather like the unitard…” he said softly, and relished in the blush that crept up Sherlock’s neck. “I would love to see it again, and I would love even more to go to dinner with you and learn more about the great and talented Sherlock Holmes.”

 

Sherlock’s blush was up to his ears now. “I don’t think my ego needs any more inflating, but thank-you…” He smiled at John. “Let me show you to your seat?”

 

John stood and gestured at the door. “Lead the way.”

 

“You just want to stare at my arse,” Sherlock complained, going to the door.

 

“Too soon to admit to that?” John inquired, only a little worried about that.

 

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Sherlock amended and John was sure that there was a bit more swish to his step than before.


	14. December 14: Christmas Cookies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had this idea for a full story but I opted to do the 24 days instead. So this got to be a short little guy that's not so short anymore.
> 
> Literally my only gripe about this chapter is that I picked a bad day to write it because I could have continued to get carried away with this except I didn't have enough time to do so. :P (WHICH IS WHY THIS IS SO LATE. I'M SO SORRY.)
> 
> Please review if you feel so inclined! <3

“I need your help.”

 

That’s what starts it.

 

Sherlock bursts into their dorm room the night before the Christmas holidays start. He looks frazzled with his hair windblown and eyes wide with barely contained panic.

 

John sits up in bed and stares at him. “You’re covered in snow. Where have you been?” he asks sleepily.

 

“I need your help,” Sherlock huffs, closing the door behind him. He shakes his hair out and takes his coat off, draping it over a chair. “My mum called. She’s expecting me home for Christmas.”

 

John shrugs, hugging himself. “So? You have a perfectly functioning car. What’s the problem?”

 

“She, er, thinks I’m bringing someone home with me,” Sherlock admits, sitting on his own bed with a defeated sigh. “I might have stretched the truth a little earlier in the year,” he explains when he sees John’s curious expression. “But she worries, you know? What we won’t do for our parents…”

 

“And what does this have to do with me?” John asks, baffled. He knows that Sherlock is the biggest mama’s boy ever but he’s failing to see how it has anything to do with himself.

 

Sherlock groans, covering his face with his hands as he flops backwards onto his bed. “You’re so hopelessly slow!” he cries, throwing his arms to the side. “I was asking if you’ll come home with me and pretend to be my boyfriend!”

 

John sputters, face heating immediately at all the implications. “Excuse me?” he screeches, his voice going a bit embarrassingly high. “Sherlock, we’re good friends but do you think we’re really _that_ good of friends?”

 

“I wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t?” Sherlock sits back up, expression puzzled. “You don’t think so?”

 

“Don’t guilt me into this,” John scolds, but it’s no use. He’s already feeling the effect of Sherlock’s words. “Just…come up with some bullocks excuse about how your partner is busy or something?”

 

Sherlock’s eyes narrow. “Too late. I’ve already told her he’s coming. John, you’re not even going home this year. Do you really want to be stuck around campus alone for two weeks?”

 

John’s really sick of low blows. “Fine, I’ll go. But! I have conditions!” Sherlock’s elated expression immediately falls. “I don’t care what anyone says, PDA is out. We’re not _that_ close.”

 

“I’m not a fan of public displays of affection anyway,” Sherlock huffs, waving his hand. “My parents understand that.”

 

“And we’re not sharing a bed. I’ll take a chair before I sleep with you,” John continues, ignoring him. “You kick in your sleep. I’ve seen it.”

 

“You snore,” Sherlock counters with a pout. “These conditions are obvious and tedious. Give me one I haven’t already thought of.”

 

John pauses and says, “I do _not_ snore…”

 

Sherlock snorts. “I have evidence. I recorded it on my phone.”

 

“You recorded me snoring?” John asks, baffled.

 

“I knew you’d argue it,” Sherlock tells him with his famous “obvious” tone. “I needed proof.”

 

“You’re so weird,” John groans, laying back down.

 

“You mean brilliant,” Sherlock corrects as he stands, heading toward the bathroom as he takes his shirt off.

 

“Nope; I meant weird,” John insists, pulling the covers over his head. “When do we leave tomorrow?”

 

Sherlock doesn’t answer until he’s come back from the bathroom and has changed into his pajamas. “Before noon. It’s a decent drive.”

 

“Fantastic,” John mumbles sleepily.

 

\--

 

John had met Sherlock for the first time two years ago when he’d moved into their dorm. John had been studying medicine for a year already and his last flatmate had left with his graduation. Sherlock was just starting a degree in chemistry.

 

At first, it had been a nightmare. The two clashed so horribly, it was almost funny. Then one day, John caught a couple of kids beating up on Sherlock and his empathic nature kicked in. They had formed a complicated but strong friendship after that.

 

\--

 

John doesn’t really know much about Sherlock’s family. Family in general was something they’ve both been touchy about since meeting. For John, it’s just bad memories; he’s long since stopped believing that family means blood. But he isn’t sure about Sherlock, beyond what he’s mentioned about his older brother. From what John has managed to ascertain, Sherlock firmly believes that everyone thinks Mycroft does everything better than he does. John thinks it sounds like a severe case of sibling rivalry. But, given his friend’s nature, he’s probably taken a few passing comments more personally than they were meant to be taken and based his entire reasoning on them.

 

He’s not sure what he’s expecting of the rest of the Holmes family, nor what the house will look like, but when they pull into the drive, he realises he was _not_ expecting what he’s seeing. The house is a very cozy looking cottage, something you’d see on the front of a “Season’s Greetings” card. Currently, with all the snow accumulation, it looks a bit like a gingerbread house.

 

“Is this where you grew up?” John asks incredulously, peering out the windshield. It’s still lightly snowing, like powdered sugar being sifted out around them. Sherlock grunts in some sort of acknowledgment. “God, it’s gorgeous.”

 

Sherlock stares at him for a moment after parking the car and then huffs. “You’re ridiculous.” He gets out of the car just as an older woman peers out of the house.

 

“Sherlock? Is that you?” she calls, voice moving up with enthusiasm. “Oh, you made it!” She shuffles down the steps, wary of ice, and approaches her son, who has moved to greet her.

 

“I said I would come and I’m here,” Sherlock tells her, a note of softness to his words that John can’t recall ever hearing.

 

She hugs him tightly and John sees his father make his way out as well. “Sherlock! You beat Mycroft this year!” he calls companionably.

 

John sinks into his seat, kind of hoping maybe the snow will keep them from seeing him. But his mother seems to have the same telepathic powers as Sherlock and she glances at the car. “Is that your boyfriend?” she asks as John hauls himself from the car.

 

“Er, yes,” Sherlock says awkwardly and holds out his arm for John who goes to his embrace with little reluctance. There’s something about his mother that makes you want to appease her. He can see why Sherlock’s a mama’s boy now. “This is John Watson,” he introduces, wrapping his arm around John’s waist.

 

John shakes his father’s hand warmly and then gets a hug from his mother. “It’s nice to finally meet you,” he squeaks in surprise.

 

Mrs. Holmes, as John decides to call her since neither gave their first names, pulls back and ushers them inside. “It’s frigid out here. I’ve got hot chocolate going. Come on!”

 

“Let us get our bags first, Mummy,” Sherlock complains and the boys quickly split to go to the trunk of the car.

 

“How did you end up such an arsehole when your mum is so sweet?” John teases, pulling out his bag. Sherlock scowls at him as they head up the walk and into the house. They kick their feet against the top step to shake off the snow and step into warmth. “Ah, marvelous.”

 

“You two can take Sherlock’s old room,” Mrs. Holmes calls from the kitchen. “Unpack later. Mycroft is going to be here soon and we’ll decorate the tree together!”

 

The two of them make their way up the stairs and into Sherlock’s old room. It’s bland now; Sherlock must have taken a lot of his wall hangings with him to their dorm. John notices the lack of any chairs and that there is only one bed. They drop their bags by the door and head back downstairs for the promised hot chocolate.

 

When Mycroft arrives, Sherlock proudly (smugly) introduces John as his boyfriend and John plays it up for him, sure that if Sherlock is brilliant at deducing, than the rest of his family probably is too. Mycroft’s stare is cold and calculating and he’s a bit afraid that maybe they’re still a bit see-through. Nothing is said about it, though, and Mrs. Holmes gives Mycroft his cup of cocoa before they move to the sitting room to decorate the tree.

 

\--

 

Going to bed that night isn’t really a fun affair. After both changing in the bathroom, they close the door behind them and stare at the single bed, remembering what they’d accused the other of just the night before. “You knew there was no chair, didn’t you?” John huffs, crossing his arms.

 

“I did have a very large and comfortable chair in the corner by the closet,” Sherlock grumbles, looking annoyed. “They moved it downstairs for Dad. I only noticed when we were decorating…”

 

John sighs and moves to the bed. “Well, I’m glad you’ve got a big bed then…” He’s not sleeping on the floor and he’s not asking Sherlock to either so that leaves them with one option. He pulls the covers down on the queen bed and glances up at Sherlock. “Coming?”

 

“We’re sharing?” Sherlock whispers in surprise, moving to the other side of the bed. “You said I kicked, though…”

 

“Yeah, I know,” John says, rolling his eyes. “Let’s see if you’re considerate of others in your sleep or if you’re still a brat.” He climbs into the bed and gets himself situated. After a moment, Sherlock climbs in on his side and settles down quickly. “Good night, Sherlock.”

 

“G’night,” Sherlock mumbles, shifting slightly.

 

\--

 

It wasn’t the best sleep he’s ever had, Sherlock decides as he wakes the next morning. His whole body is stiff, and he’s fairly sure he hadn’t moved all night. He stretches as he stands and glances at John, who also looks as if he hadn’t moved all night and who is still asleep. He goes to his bag and quickly changes into comfortable clothes before slipping downstairs to help his mother make breakfast.

 

“What a surprise,” Mummy tells him when he offers his assistance. “You never help.”

 

Sherlock grimaces. “Christmas spirit,” he offers weakly and his mum laughs before accepting his help. They make about two dozen pancakes before John wanders downstairs, still in his pajamas. “Did you get enough sleep?” Sherlock teases, amused.

 

“Shut it, you,” John growls, rubbing one of his eyes as he sits at the island. “It smells good; woke me up.”

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes as he passes him a plate of pancakes. “Do you ever _not_ think with your stomach? Don’t answer that. I know the other thing you think with.”

 

“My brain?” John offers in annoyance. “Good morning to you, too.”

 

“Yes, that.” Sherlock pauses in the middle of handing John the maple syrup. “Although, I do wonder what constitutes as ‘good’...”

 

John snatches the syrup with a huff. “Don’t be so cynical so early.”

 

“John, it’s ten-thirty. I hardly consider that _early_ ,” Sherlock scoffs with a roll of his eyes.

 

“Always this grumpy, you two?” Mycroft inquires, grabbing a pancake. “Good morning, Mummy.” He kisses her cheek briefly.

 

“Morning, all!” she chirps happily, apparently ignoring John and Sherlock’s tiff.

 

John glances at Sherlock and shakes his head. “Good morning…”

 

Sherlock sighs and rolls his eyes again as he and his mum finish up with breakfast.

 

\--

 

The days seem to fly by and soon it’s the night before Christmas Eve. Sherlock and John are laying in bed, staring at the ceiling. “Sherlock?” John whispers after a few hours of them silently attempting to sleep.

 

“What?” he mumbled, too exhausted to sleep. He had too many nights like this for it to be abnormal for himself.

 

“I honestly cannot sleep,” John answers, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. “All I can think about right now is cookies. I seriously want gingerbread cookies so bad right now.”

 

“John, you’ve got to be kidding,” Sherlock hisses, amused. “It’s two in the bloody morning… And you want to make _cookies_?”

 

John groans and rolls onto his side to look at him. “I’m dead serious and I hate it. I should be sleeping right now and instead I just want cookies.”

 

Sherlock is quiet a moment before he says, “Let’s go make cookies.” He throws the covers aside and slips out of bed.

 

“Wait, what?” John’s close to laughing. He flings the blankets aside and climbs out of bed as well, shoving his feet into his slippers. “Are you serious?”

 

“Why not?” he asks, smiling.

 

John grins and follows him out of the room and into the kitchen. “Do we have everything to make gingerbread cookies?”

 

Sherlock grabs a recipe book from a cupboard above the stove and opens it to a gingerbread recipe. “Simple, really. We should.” They scramble around the kitchen, pulling out all the ingredients needed.

 

They don’t turn on the lights as they measure and mix each ingredient as the recipe calls for it. It’s a rather big mess between the two of them, and John doesn’t hesitate to flick flour at Sherlock now and again. They fall into a fit of giggles as they cover each other in flour and sugar. As the laughter dies down and they look at each other, there’s a pause and John smiles awkwardly, leaning forward to brush his fingers against Sherlock’s cheek. “You are covered in flour, you idiot,” he mutters affectionately.

 

Sherlock blushes slightly, leaning forward into John’s touch. “So are you,” he counters softly.

 

They’re centimeters apart, lips almost brushing, when the light suddenly flicks on. They pull away so fast, John’s sure they both suffered whiplash. Mycroft is standing in the doorway, looking rather unimpressed. “You might be quieter if you turn on the light…” he tells them airily and leaves the room.

 

John feels that his face is on fire. But, glancing at Sherlock, he’s sure he’s not as red as his friend. “So, um, yeah…” he tries, rubbing the back of his neck. “About that PDA condition?”

 

“Retracted, a given,” Sherlock mumbles and leans over the recipe book. “Have we preheated the oven yet?”

  
Needless to say, neither slept that night. And John is positive that it’s the best Christmas he’s ever had.


	15. December 15: Christmas Cards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is just a cute little thing. Apologies for it being so short. But at least it's out at a decent time?
> 
> A bit of canon-verse, again. 
> 
> Please review if you feel so inclined! :D Love you guys!

“I think we should do a Christmas card this year,” John suggests out of the blue one day. Sherlock looks up from his book, baffled. “Ya know, picture on the front and some cheesy lines inside?”

 

“Good God, have you gone mad?” Sherlock cries, sitting up abruptly. “That is the most brainless idea you’ve ever had.”

 

“What’s wrong with doing a Christmas card?” John asks defensively, closing his laptop. “We’ll make it cheesy and stupid. It’ll be fun.”

 

Sherlock presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I hate photos. You know this.”

 

“Next excuse,” John huffs, crossing his arms.

 

“Who would we even send them to?” Sherlock stares up at him. “I’m not sending any to the Met -- they all make fun of me as it is.”

 

John frowns. He’s still mad about that. Lestrade doesn’t have any authority over them anymore, though, so he can’t do much about the turn most of the Met has made. When everyone found out that John was dating Sherlock, they gave him a hard time about his choice of men but he could easily shut them up with a Look. Sherlock, however, did not have that advantage as most of them were used to ignoring him anyway.

 

“Greg, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, your parents, my sister, Mike, Mycroft,” John lists, scrunching his nose. Was the list really that short?

 

“Met; she’s going away for the holidays; not really sending it at that point; we’re not encouraging them; you haven’t talked to her in over six years; you’re not even really friends anymore; I hate him so no,” Sherlock ticks off, using his fingers to further his point. He sighs. “There is literally _no_ reason to create a card for anyone.”

 

John opens his computer again with a huff. “We’re going to make a card this year. I’ll make a nice long list of people we can send them to.”

 

“If anyone in the Met gets a card, I’ll never forgive you,” Sherlock snarls, picking his book up from the floor where he’d dropped it earlier in the afternoon.

 

\--

 

It takes a lot of convincing to get Sherlock to take the picture. He whines and complains about how ridiculous he looks and refuses to smile at the camera. John tricks him into giving the camera more time before the picture and gets him to laugh at a story about one of the new Met members.

 

The snapshot is of Sherlock laughing, his head turned a little toward John. On his head is a pair of antlers. John is wearing a little elf hat with ears on the sides, grinning hugely.

 

The picture is absolutely ridiculous, which is why he doesn’t tell Sherlock he has it. Instead, he tells him that it was a bust and “I guess no one will be getting a card from us this year.” He goes to the shop and gets the picture turned into several cards.

 

He keeps to his original list plus his parents, deciding that no one else in the Met needs to see the picture and he trusts Greg not to go spreading it around. Once he sends them all out and gives Mrs. Hudson a card as well, he sets the last extra card on their mantle.

 

It takes two days before Sherlock notices the card.

 

He snatches it up, staring at the picture, before roaring, “John! What the bloody hell is this!?”

  
John sits in his room laughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PS: If anyone is interested in doing a fanart of that card, please do so and let me know so I can share it here! :D


	16. December 16: Hot Cocoa/Tea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I chose to do specifically hot cocoa in this one and the reason why is because of this picture: http://johnnybooboo.tumblr.com/post/71300304364/i-lived-through-dozens-of-lonely-christmases-just It's singlehandedly one of my top ten favourite pieces of fanart I've ever seen. I got permission from the artist to use this as an inspiration for this story and I was just waiting for the time to write it. Please take a look at the piece because it's the background for this story and it's so gorgeous. 
> 
> *Warning: Hints of mild child abuse/neglect and drug usage.*
> 
> Anyway, I finished this earlier but something came up so it had to wait for me to post it. I hope you enjoy this. Please review if you feel so inclined! <3

_Sherlock: Age Six_

 

Sherlock decidedly hates the new Christmas outfit.

 

He looks drab and washed out in the button-up and skinny tie. His shorts are too short for his liking as well. He huffs at the knee-high socks and the stupid brown shoes his mother bought him. He doesn’t feel like there’s enough flexibility in the new outfit. What if he wants to run around? The shorts are too new and he _knows_ he’ll end up tearing his socks.

 

But his mother is insisting he wear it when the family comes around. It’s the last thing he wants to wear around his aunts. His only condolence is that his cousins get it worse than he does.

 

At four o’clock, he marches down the stairs, doing his best to make as much noise as possible. “Sherlock,” his mother scolds, waiting for him at the bottom of the steps. “What is wrong?”

 

He scowls up at her. “I look stupid.”

 

She sighs and pushes her hand through his hair. “You look like a little man. Aren’t you excited to see all your aunts and uncles and open presents?”

 

“No,” he mumbles stubbornly, shaking his hair out again.

 

His mother gives him an exasperated look and heads for the kitchen. “Why are you so difficult?” she mutters to herself as she goes.

 

Sherlock hops down into the living room, glaring at all the brightly coloured gifts under the tree. He’s going to have to share his bedroom with one of his obnoxious older cousins who always likes to touch his things and make fun of the skull he keeps on his bedside table. He’s hid his skull under his pillow and all the important things are in his closet. He hopes the moron hasn’t upgraded to destroying books, though.

 

He sits on the loveseat as family starts arriving, feeling a bit put-out by the fact that the only people to stop and say hello to him are his overbearing aunts. No one actually likes him, he knows that. He still feels the sting, though.

 

\--

 

_John: Age 7_

 

His parents were arguing the night before. John knows this but it’s still disappointing to walk downstairs Christmas morning to see the living room in disarray, his father missing. He should have expected it, he knows. Christmas is no different than any other day of the year for his family.

 

Harriet’s already there, trying to put the living room back together. She looks up when she hears John. Even with the distance, he can still see the tear tracks down her face. She tries so hard to hold it together for him but it’s her Christmas, too. It’s her parents, too.

 

The only presents still under the tree are the ones they’d gotten for each other so they sit down and open them together.

 

Their mother comes downstairs at two in the afternoon and forgets it’s Christmas. She makes them all a late lunch and tells them that they’ll be moving after the first of the year, that their dad is not allowed to come with them.

 

\--

 

_Sherlock: Age 10_

 

He decides not to go downstairs when family starts arriving. If he’s important, they’ll come looking for him. Sherlock knows the only ones who will ask are his mother’s sisters, who feel obligated to remember him. Instead of going downstairs, Sherlock hides himself in his room with his copy of _“The Hobbit”_. He’s sitting cross-legged on his bed, the book open on his lap.

 

He glances out his window at all the snow falling and sighs to himself. What even is the point of Christmas? He feels like it’s the time of year when all the adults in the family get together and show off their achievements -- and their children, but that’s an achievement to some of the parents gathering together downstairs. Sherlock’s not sure he _knows_ what it’s like to feel like he’s being treated like a human being instead of an object. All the emotions in him are in a jar somewhere in the back of his Mind Palace and he’s not sure if he is human, ever was.

 

His mother calls to him and he snaps his book shut, setting it aside on his bed. He doesn’t want to go downstairs. He never gets what he asks for at Christmas anyway. No one listens.

 

\--

 

_John: Age 11_

 

His mother has been doing well this year. She’s found someone new and John hates her boyfriend. He’s loud and drinks too much; he yells at his mum for stupid things and has smacked John across the face for correcting him once.

 

John liked it more when his mum wasn’t dating anyone. She was happier and she paid John and Harriet more attention. Now she’s angry again, drinking more because of her boyfriend. She yells a lot, too, and John’s sick of his ears ringing every time there’s a moment of silence at night.

 

It’s Christmas Eve, something of a forgotten date in the Watson household. Harriet is spending it with her best friend and their family. John had no friends, and none that would let him stay for _Christmas_. He’s long since stopped believing in Santa, Christmas losing its magic years ago. It’s just another day for him as well now.

 

He’s huddled in his room, hiding under his blankets with his hands over his ears. His mother and her boyfriend are arguing loudly in their bedroom. He’s so tired of the yelling.

 

He curls up and rests his head on his worn pillows. Everything inside him is tired, as worn out as his material things. There’s nothing vibrant or exciting in his life anymore. He wants a friend, someone to confide in and spend Christmas with. He wants to feel something other than exhaustion and fear. Just once.

 

\--

 

_Sherlock: Age 17_

 

Running away from home is probably the best thing he’s ever done for himself. He’s away from the mindless zombies that are his family, away from the obligations they put on him. He can dress the way he desires, act the way he feels.

 

The problem then lies in the fact that Sherlock doesn’t know how he feels.

 

This is the first time he’s allowed to feel anything and he doesn’t recognise any of it. It’s a chaotic mess in his head and when he tries to sort it out, he gets frustrated and understands _fear_.

 

He’s never been away from home alone before. There are people who pretend to be his friends and stab him in the back in the same breath. There are sights he’s never thought he could see, nor would he ever desire to see. His funds are dwindling and he’s mindlessly injecting drugs into his veins to recall the numbness he desires.

 

One thing he hadn’t ever realised, and still refuses to acknowledge, is there have always been two emotions he knows very well: Anger and loneliness.

 

Late at night, when he’s coming down from an exquisite high, he falls into the pit of his anger and loneliness and sobs himself to sleep in a broken-down bed in a trashy motel room.

 

He forgets it’s Christmas.

 

\--

 

_John: Age 18_

 

The army is his last resort. He’s desperate to get out of his house. His sister has fallen into drink. His mother is constantly on the brink of being suicidal. Her boyfriend is in and out, calling in for money when he comes around. John can’t take the atmosphere and enlists as soon as he’s able.

 

The war itself isn’t exactly what he expected, yet it also is. The way the recruiters talk it up made him believe it was actually a shithole. There’s just so much more to it that he never expected.

 

And friends are nonexistent.

 

People make it sound as if you’ll come away with lots of friends, some who are alive and some who aren’t. But it’s not true. You form a camaraderie with the people you serve with, yes. But it’s because you’re all in the same boat; it’s a team, not a group of friends.

 

Now and again, he stops to look up at the sky and feels the pang of loneliness and bitterness he’s come to live with. There’s the edge of exhaustion creeping back in as well. And always fear.

 

Is today the day he’ll die? How many of his men will die or get injured? Will they run out of supplies?

 

Fears that wrack him during the day, and nightmares that keep him awake at night. He only knows real sleep when the exhaustion takes its hold again and drags him deep into silent waters.

 

Christmas comes and goes without his knowledge.

 

\--

 

_Sherlock: Age 29_

_John: Age 30_

“John,” Sherlock calls, sprawling across the couch. “Is it ready yet?”

 

The blond wanders in with two steaming cups of hot cocoa. “You wanted whipped cream, right?” he asks, nudging one of Sherlock’s legs with his foot. “Budge over.”

 

With a dramatic huff, Sherlock swings his legs down and sits up. John plops next to him and hands over the mug of cocoa. “I thought you said I was getting whipped cream on top,” he grumbles, peering into the mug.

 

“That _does_ have whipped cream,” John protests, wrapping his hands around his own mug. “There’s plenty more in the fridge, you know. If you want more, go get it yourself.” Sherlock scowls as he gets up and goes to the kitchen, dumping more whipped cream into his mug before coming back and sitting down again. “Bloody hell, Sherlock!” he cries, startled. “That’s ridiculous!”

 

Sherlock stares at him. “No, it’s whipped cream,” he tells him slowly. “This is how you top cocoa, John.”

 

John snorts, shaking his head. “You’re going to get diabetes from the way you eat.”

 

“I don’t eat sugar _all the time_ ,” Sherlock drawls, rolling his eyes as he takes a sip from his mug. “My sweet tooth only comes out occasionally.”

 

“God help me when it does, though,” John mutters and Sherlock narrows his eyes at him. He glances around the room, all decorated for Christmas. He’s startled at the warmth in his chest as he takes it all in. “You know what?” Sherlock hums to let him know he’s listening. “I think this is the best Christmas I’ve ever had.”

 

Sherlock blinks at him. “It’s the eve of Christmas…” he reminds him in that slow tone again, as if he’s talking with someone who has a few mental health issues. “We haven’t even gotten to presents or my abelskivers yet.”

 

John laughs and leans over toward him. “Honestly? I couldn’t care less.” Sherlock’s brow creases in confusion. “I have you and that’s the best I could ever ask for. Christmas came early when I met you.”

  
“Your hot cocoa is what I live for now,” Sherlock tells him offhandedly, blushing deeply. He leans over as well and they press their lips together, both smiling stupidly into the kiss as the steam from their mugs wafts into the air around them. He’s having a hard time believing what he’s feeling but he’s oh so grateful that it’s making the loneliness disappear.


	17. December 17: Christmas Wishes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As cute as this idea was, it was actually really difficult to write for some reason... 
> 
> Anyway, this idea was suggested to me a couple of days ago by lion_62 (and by a couple of days ago, I apparently mean over a week ago): "Sherlock and John are married and have a kid but John has to go back to the army. John finds out when his leave is and works with Molly to have Sherlock take their kid to see Santa. The kid says he wants his papa/daddy (whatever name you would call John) home for Christmas. John's sitting behind Santa's chair and comes out to surprise them both."
> 
> I watched a couple of videos like this for inspiration and sobbed like the baby I am. I KNOW that I did not write it well enough for you to cry but I hope it's sappy enough. :)
> 
> In a fit of inspiration, and probably a bit of insanity, I decided that I'd put out there that if anyone else has a suggestion, I have the following open prompts:
> 
> -Gift Shopping/Gift Wrapping  
> -Opening Gifts/Christmas Eve  
> -Angels  
> -Grinch/Scrooge  
> -(I have a vague idea for this one but if anyone can come up with something better, I'll definitely listen!) Office Party/Eggnog
> 
> If you'd like to see your idea for any of these prompts written out, just drop it into a review and consider it your Christmas present from me! :D
> 
> ~To Lion: Thank-you for your support in this collection. Your enthusiasm means so much. Merry Christmas!!~
> 
> A quick note to consider: From what I've understood, you can be enlisted and deployed at different times. I apologise if I'm wrong but I used this to my advantage here.
> 
> Thank-you all for reading and I hope you enjoy!

John and Sherlock met in uni.

 

Young, stupid, full of life, and few regrets. They fell in love almost at first sight.

 

The thing was, John did not tell Sherlock right away that he was enlisted in the army, that at any point he could be whisked away to war. Instead, he waited until after they were deep into their relationship. He was considering proposing to Sherlock but wanted him armed with all the facts, first.

 

He nervously admitted it to him one night when they were watching the newest episode of _Doctor Who_ together. The anger, while deserved, still hurt. The argument was not quiet and Sherlock treated him to silence for a few days.

 

Of course, they couldn’t stay mad at each other for too long.

 

It was the worst argument they’d had.

 

A few months later, John proposed and Sherlock accepted.

 

About two years after they got together, they adopted a baby girl and named her Elizabeth.

 

Elizabeth was only three when her father was deployed. It was harder, in reality, for her because it was so difficult for her papa.

 

Sherlock was having an extremely hard time adjusting to being the only parent around, not having his partner nearby to lean on.

 

The year dragged for the family, leaving them all feeling rather tired and anxious.

 

Somewhere in November, John was approved his leave and made a special call to his close friend, Molly. They made their plans and, finally, he had something to look forward to.

 

\--

 

“I want to visit Santa, Papa,” Elizabeth stated firmly for the upteenth time that morning.

 

Sherlock was sprawled on the couch, conducting _more_ research on the Christmas presents he was planning. “I know,” he sighed and closed his laptop. “We’re waiting on Molly. She wants to be there, too. For some Godforsaken reason, it apparently _has_ to be today.”

 

Elizabeth pouted up at her dad. “But I’m ready _now_.” She gestured to her shoes, which were on the wrong feet.

 

He blinked down at her and rolled his eyes. “You’ve mixed up your lefts and rights again, Lizzy,” he drawled and set his computer aside. “Switch feet while I text Molly. Then we can do your hair as we wait.”

 

She eagerly complied, sitting on the floor to fix her shoes while her papa texted Molly. When she was finished, she went to the bathroom to gather her brush and some hair-ties, and presented them to Sherlock. “We have twenty minutes before Molly arrives so buckle down. Are pigtails all right?”

 

Elizabeth beamed at him. “I love pigtails,” she answered and sat down in front of the couch. He adjusted and started on her hair.

 

He would never admit it aloud but he loved doing his daughter’s hair.

 

Just as he wrapped up, Molly appeared in the doorway. “Are we all ready to go?” she asked, slightly breathless as she smiled at the duo.

 

“Yes!” Elizabeth shouted as she jumped up. “Look! Papa did my pigtails! Are they pretty?”

 

“Very pretty,” Molly told her sweetly. “Ready, Sherlock?”

 

Sherlock sighed in a very put-upon way as he stood. “Let me get my shoes and coat on…” He vanished into his bedroom and pulled on his shoes. It wasn’t that he wasn’t excited, it was that he was disappointed that John couldn’t be there this year. They had tried to get Elizabeth to visit with Santa the previous year but she had thrown a fit and it hadn’t been much fun for anyone. This year was obviously different and it was hard to think that her father would be missing out.

 

He went back out into the sitting room and pulled on his coat, helping Elizabeth into hers. “I think we’re ready now,” he told Molly, checking for his phone so he could take pictures to send to John.

 

“Good,” Molly chirped and took Elizabeth’s hand. “Let’s go have some fun, yeah?” Elizabeth cheered enthusiastically as they tromped down the stairs.

 

It didn’t take long to get to the shopping centre. They spent a little time window-shopping before getting into line to see Santa. Molly and Elizabeth chatted idly about a few of the things they’d seen. But, to Sherlock, the most interesting part of the conversation was when Molly asked, “What are you going to ask for?”

 

Elizabeth shifted nervously and shrugged. “I dunno yet.” He could tell she was lying but he didn’t know _why_.

 

Their turn arrived and she hurried over to Santa, letting herself be picked up and set in his lap. “What’s your name?” he asked in his deep voice.

 

She fidgeted a bit as she answered, “Elizabeth Holmes-Watson…”

 

He nodded as if he had already known this. “And what do you want for Christmas?” His voice had gotten a bit louder.

 

Elizabeth took a deep breath and glanced up at him. “Look, I know you’re not really Santa. My papa already told me you’re just a helper. So I know you pass on messages for him. I just want one thing this year. And that’s it.” She paused, making sure he was paying attention. “I want my daddy to come home. Even if it’s just for Christmas. Can you make sure Santa knows that? That’s all I want and nothing else?”

 

Santa smiled at her and said, “I think I can do a bit better.” He waved his hand off to the side and sparkles fell from the palm.

 

Sherlock wrinkled his nose and made to turn to Molly, to chastise her for the idea. And then something incredible happened.

 

John stepped out from behind Santa’s chair.

 

Elizabeth squealed loudly. “Daddy!” she shouted, hopping off of Santa’s lap and running into his waiting arms. Sherlock’s face crumpled in surprise and joy momentarily before he hid behind his hand as he composed himself.

 

John hugged his little girl tightly, whispering into her ear. Then he stood and shook Santa’s hand before carrying Elizabeth to Sherlock and Molly. When he reached them, he tugged Sherlock by the lapel of his coat into a one-armed hug and kissed him fiercely. “I love you, so much,” he muttered against his lips. “Merry Christmas.”

  
Sherlock was only a little aware he was crying. And he really didn’t give a damn.


	18. December 18: Christmas Carols

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about how late this is!! D: I'm working every day until Christmas and yesterday was the start of chaos. Plus, I started wrapping presents and had to send one off in a hurry today. I was up late but I only got two sentences started on this last night. And a shit shift today so most of this was written in, like, an hour. :P
> 
> Anyway, because I'm sure you honestly don't care about my life, please enjoy the story! I hope it's decent. It didn't turn out the way I anticipated, partly because I was so distracted (damn Christmas movies were on again), and partly because I lost a bit of direction somewhere in the middle of the argument. (I literally imagined that argument in the middle of stocking shelves at work the other day and I couldn't remember it word for word when I went to write it tonight.)
> 
> Enough babbling from me. Enjoy! Please review if you feel so inclined. I do apologise again for the lateness of this and I'll try to get these stories out earlier again.

Sherlock was livid. How could they think this was a good idea?

 

He was sitting in his chair, pretending not to sulk but it was obvious he was when John walked in. “Hey, you ready for tonight?” he called, hanging up his coat. He wandered into the sitting room and paused, his smile fading. “What’s wrong?”

 

“I’m not going,” he told him, glaring at the wall.

 

John blinked slowly and walked over to him. “What? What are you talking about?”

 

“I am not going,” he repeated, enouncing each word carefully. “It’s a stupid idea. I don’t want to be a part of it.”

 

John frowned, a little bit of hurt edging around the corners. “I disagree. It’s a good idea and I’m excited about it…” Sherlock scowled at him. “Why are you so upset?”

 

Sherlock huffed and sprawled himself out over his chair. “The whole reason tonight is taking place is because they peeked in on something private.” He knew he was being ridiculous, and John would surely point that out to him. But he was frustrated and angry about the whole situation.

 

It had been one night a few months ago, the event to which he was referring. He and John had been sitting in the recording studio, talking to each other about John’s new album that he was going to start on for Christmas. It was going to be his breakout album and Sherlock was excited for his friend. He had just come back from the university, where he had been teaching a violin class.

 

They had gotten to talking about the music and Sherlock had begged him to sing for him. So John had suggested that he play the violin for him while he sang. It was natural at that point, then, for them to start a song. It was a Coldplay cover, and they ended with stupid smiles. They had leaned in, intentions clear, when John’s producer had walked in and had proposed that they do a collaboration on the album. John had been enthusiastic about the idea, oblivious to Sherlock’s disgruntled expression, to the slightly sulky tone when Sherlock agreed.

 

They had made the album, to be released on Christmas day, with Sherlock on the violin and John singing. John was thrilled, and Sherlock had had some fun with it as well. Mostly just getting to work with John made it worth it.

 

The producer, Lestrade, had then said that they should promote it by doing a few tracks live in London. Of course, John had agreed enthusiastically. Again.

 

This time, however, Sherlock wouldn’t have it.

 

John sat down on the arm of the chair beside him and touched his shoulder. His brow was scrunched in that frustrated way of his. Sherlock glared at the ceiling. “This is _your_ break-out album. What’s the point of my being there?”

 

“It’s _our_ album, Sherlock; you’re on it too,” John told him sternly, frowning ever deeper. “That song, that we first did together, was the biggest moment for us, don’t you think?”

 

“No,” Sherlock snapped, sitting up abruptly. “It was _about_ to be a big moment. It was interrupted. This whole album was _yours_ and I hate that everyone thinks I have to be there with you to promote it. Just go enjoy your flurry of activity and fame and I’ll stay here, thank you very much.”

 

John was silent for a moment. Then he got up and stood in front of Sherlock, hands on his hips. “Stop it. You’re so stupid. It wasn’t ruined, or interrupted. It was perfect. Why haven’t we talked about this? It was a perfect moment. It’s _our_ moment.”

 

“What came of it?” Sherlock barked, crossing his arms defiantly. “Your stupid, obnoxious producer ruined it all and I’m not playing tonight.”

 

“What came of it?” John repeated, baffled. “Well, I don’t know… I…” He paused, taking a step back. “What were you expecting...?”

 

Sherlock stood and shook his robe out, wrapping it around himself more securely. “We were about to _kiss_ , John. What do you think?”

 

He made to march off to his room but John caught his arm. “Wait. Wait, wait, wait. Yes, we were. But what else was going to come of that if we had? This is how it always has been, this is how I always pictured us later in life. Sure, maybe I had more kisses in mind, but I didn’t ever think you’d like that sort of thing.”

 

Sherlock scrunched his nose. “Well, I’ve never tried it with _you_.”

 

John pulled him closer, one arm wrapping around his waist. “So let’s try it again.” He stood on his toes and pressed his lips against Sherlock’s, his other arm going around Sherlock’s neck.

 

It took a moment before Sherlock responded and started kissing back. The longer their lips were pressed together, the more passionate it became, and the longer the kiss was drawn out. When they needed air, they reluctantly parted and Sherlock rested their foreheads together. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, voice deep and raw. “This is perfect…”

 

“You don’t have to play tonight,” John sighed, though his tone was tight and rather resigned. “It’s fine, it’s all fine. I didn’t mean to pressure you into this. I didn’t know you weren’t interested. Don’t you remember me telling you that words were important?”

 

Sherlock huffed out, sounding annoyed somehow. “Yes, I remember…” Slowly, he added, “They’re harder than you made it sound, you know.”

 

John laughed lowly, pulling away to look him in the eye. “I know. I do. So let’s try to use them more often, together?”

 

Sherlock nodded morosely and then added, “I’ll play on one condition.” John cocked an eyebrow at him curiously. “I get to play _Silent Night_.”

 

“Your favourite,” John whispers, grinning. “I accept the condition. Now kiss me again so you can go get ready for tonight.”

 

Happily obliging, Sherlock pressed his lips to John’s once more, smiling into the kiss. “I’m going,” he mumbled and stepped away to his room.

 

\--

 

The show was a success.

 

Sherlock was obviously having a blast, really getting into the way he played and swaying to the music, grinning at John now and again. John was having fun as well, laughing now and again through it. At the very end, they wrapped up the night, Sherlock started his favourite carol and John listened to the flow for just a little longer than he was supposed to before he started singing.

 

Lestrade congratulated them as they stepped off the stage, telling them they had done so well and that they deserved the holidays off. (“Except, too bad you don’t actually get them.”)

 

Sherlock was not in the greatest of moods, after Lestrade’s little reminder. But, when they got home, John suggested, “Will you play one more time for me?”

 

“What would you like me to play?” Sherlock asked, opening his violin case.

 

John hummed softly and said, “ _White Christmas_?” He smiled gently. Sherlock gave him a tentative smile in return and pulled his violin out, resting it under his chin. He played the song through once while John sat down in his chair to listen.

 

After the song ended, Sherlock set down his violin and bow and climbed into John’s lap. “Thank-you, John…”

 

“Thank- _you_ , Sherlock,” John muttered, resting his hands against his hips. “I’m very glad we used our words.”

  
Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes. 


	19. December 19: Angels

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't connected to chapter 21 but it does kind of prelude it, hinting at the magical realm. 
> 
> I wasn't quite sure how to end this so I just let it go there. I hope it's okay. Please review if you feel so inclined!

John is five when he first meets his Angel.

 

It’s dark outside and he’s wrapped up in his blankets, crying. His parents had just had a big argument and his mum had left. He’s afraid she’ll never come back and he’s scared of his dad without her around.

 

There’s a soft _whooshing_ sound that causes him to slowly calm down, cautious. And then someone sits on the edge of his bed and he freezes. His door squeaks and he’d know if someone had come in. He pulled his blankets down off his head, sitting up more, and looks around his room.

 

A boy a little older than him is sitting on the corner of his bed, staring hesitantly at him. He’s pale with dark hair, and fluffy lavender wings. His eyes are bright, changing from blue to green to brown and back in a slow succession, sometimes blending to make odd colours. He’s wearing shorts and a button-up shirt, and his feet are bare. He’s biting his lip as he stares at John.

 

“Who are you?” John whispers, fearing that even that is too loud in his house.

 

The boy tilts his head and says, in a high and melodic voice, “I’m your Angel…” His wings twitch and John catches shades of blue in them. “You were crying just now. Why?”

 

John blinks at him, holding his blankets tighter around him. “How did you get into my room?” he asks instead.

 

The Angel smirks, just a small twitch of his lips. “It wasn’t hard. But you’re avoiding my question. Either answer or both of us will be disappointed.”

 

“I think my mummy ran away…” John mumbles, tears pricking at his eyes again. “I’m scared.” He rubs one eye with his fist, losing his short battle with his emotions.

 

The boy crawls up to John and sits beside him, wrapping his arms around him. He feels something soft brush against his face and glances to his right to see feathers. “It’s okay. That’s why I’m here. To make you safe and not scared.”

 

John looks back at him with a frown. “Is my mummy coming back?”

 

“I...er, I don’t know that,” the Angel murmurs, sounding irritated by this. “I’m sorry. It’ll be okay, though. Regardless. I promise.”

 

“You’re a rubbish angel,” John sniffs, curling into the boy anyway. He scrunches his shoulders and pulls his knees up close, getting as close to the boy as he can. “You haven’t even told me your name.”

 

The Angel sighs, something amused about the sound. “Just… Your Angel. That’s all you ever need to know me by.” John hums softly as the boy holds him close, lowering them so they’re laying down. “Go to sleep, John,” he whispers, pulling the covers tighter around the blond.

 

\--

 

It’s not the last time he sees his Angel, either. The boy appears every time John’s at his wit’s end, or when he’s in dire need of comfort. Over the years, as John ages, the boy seems to as well. The boy is never around long enough for them to have a proper friendship, but always there for enough time for John to feel like he has someone reliable on his side.

 

When he’s about thirteen, he gets into a fist fight with an older boy who was teasing his sister about her clothes. Harriet’s going through her own set of trials and one of them is questioning everything from her gender to her sexuality. While John supports her, because it seems like a big deal to her, their father is outwardly hateful of her attempts to figure herself out. And the kids at school aren’t nice about it either. So, one day, John has enough of it and confronts one of the boys.

 

The fight ends with John sporting a bloody nose and a black eye, but the other boy is missing at least one tooth along with his bruises. His Angel appears after, eyes narrowed and arms crossed. “Aren’t you supposed to be protecting me from doing things that are detrimental to my health?” John snaps at him, his anger not yet faded.

 

The Angel scoffs and ruffles his feathers, as if offended. “Even if the rules did dictate to get involved in these sorts of things, you wouldn’t have listened anyway.”

 

John gets to his feet, swiping the back of his hand across his nose. He’s afraid it might be broken. “Where do you go, anyway, when you’re not with me? Why don’t you stay?” His tone is accusing, betraying the hurt he’s started to harbor over this.

 

This causes his Angel to hesitate, defenses dropping momentarily as he stares helplessly at the blond. After a moment, he drops his arms with a sigh. “You’re not the only child who needs an Angel,” he tells him quietly. “And Angels are in short supply. Some of us are helping up to ten kids every day. I was in training when I first met you.” He glances off to the side, frowning. “It sounds stupid, how things work, but it’s true. Just like every other magical being, it’s not that there’s not a lot of us, it’s that the work becomes daunting. The less people believe, the less of us want to work around them.”

 

“‘Other magical beings’?” John raises his eyebrows. “Are you talking, like, fairies and elves and the such?”

 

“Yes,” his Angel smiles slyly, looking back at him. “I exist. Didn’t you think of all the other things people tell you are just fairy-tales when you met me?”

 

John shrugged. “Well, yeah, but… Come on, _fairies_?”

 

The boy laughed, the first time John had ever heard it. It was deep, full of so many different sounds somehow making one beautiful one -- joy, anger, hurt, relief, and, silly as it was to say, magic. “Don’t ever stop believing in the impossible, John,” his Angel told him, grinning widely. “I mean that.”

 

There was something unsaid hovering behind his words that made John take him seriously as he nodded. He wouldn’t voice it aloud -- something told him his Angel would hear it even if he didn’t -- but he was going to hold onto those words for a very long time.

 

\--

 

John has to admit that he’s never thought the day when his Angel won’t come would ever arrive. He’s just gotten back from Afghanistan, finally discharged from the hospital. His Angel had been there when he’d been shot, keeping him awake and alive. But when he woke in the hospital in London, he was nowhere to be seen. He’s nowhere to be seen when he starts having nightmares. He doesn’t show up when the loneliness steps in, either.

 

He’s seriously starting to wonder if he made up the boy.

 

And then, one day, he runs into an old friend who takes him to Bart’s to introduce him to a friend. When they step into the room, John’s eyes widen and he gasps, “My Angel…”

 

The man glances up from his microscope, giving him a curious look. “Could you excuse us, Mike?” he asks in a clipped tone. Obviously not one to test him, Mike hurries out of the room. The dark-haired man stands up straight and adjusts his dress jacket.

 

“Where are your wings?” John asks softly, feeling in awe. It feels too long since he’d seen his face.

 

“I did what many others before me did when they fell in love with one of the humans they watched over,” the man tells him curtly, hands tucked behind his back. “I gave them up.”

 

John blinks slowly, absorbing his words. “What…?”

 

The man sighs, sounding exasperated. “I gave them up so I could enjoy humanity with you,” he says slowly. “Though, it is rather irritating that I was placed so far from you… The idea was to meet again, more natural and other such nonsense.”

 

John smiles, walking over to him. “That is nonsense.” He pauses and inquires, “So, now you’re not technically an angel anymore, will you finally tell me your name?”

 

The man grins, something goofy and gorgeous. “Yes. I can do that.” He takes a deep breath. “Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes.”

 

John mirrors his grin and touches his arm, as if afraid he’ll disappear. “I missed you. What happened?”

 

“The business of getting here, mostly,” Sherlock explains, annoyed. “After you were shot, it was quite difficult for me to wrap my head around the concept of existing without you. I had to go to the Council and they took my wings so I could become human.”

 

“There’s a council?” John tilted his head curiously.

  
“In a manner of speaking,” Sherlock mumbles, waving his hand before taking John’s and interlacing their fingers. “I’ve never thought I’d be so happy to be human.”


	20. December 20: Office Party/Eggnog

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to stop apologising for the lateness of these chapters because it's the holidays and work sucks right now. This was my last obnoxious shift, but the next two mean I'll be posting later. And I'm mildly panicked about Christmas Eve's post, to be honest here. So, for this and the next four days: I apologise for them being late, when they are.
> 
> Anyway, this is just... It ran away with itself. I have no other explanation for this. I hope you enjoy it! Please review if you feel so inclined. I love your thoughts! :D

 

Sherlock hates parties so he’s not positive why he decided to come.

 

Actually, he knows the _exact_ reason. He’s just not admitting it.

 

To anyone. Including himself.

 

He glances around the big room, some space the office had rented out. Most of the company had decided to come so it was rather packed and noisy. Their boss was trying much too hard to be cool, letting one of his nameless coworkers DJ. _(Apparently all he knows is crap Christmas songs… Or maybe that’s all he’s allowed to play…)_

 

In his hands, he has two neatly wrapped gifts. One for his boss, and the other for his assistant manager.

 

Because it’s Christmas, nearly, and that’s a nice thing to do. Right?

 

_(It’ll look less obvious if I give my boss a gift as well. No one is being singled out.)_

 

He wanders over to the bar, peering at the drink choices. _(Horrible. Cheap.)_ Frowning, he decides to go to the food table but is intercepted by his assistant manager.

 

“You came!” John cries, expression showing just how thrilled he is.

 

 _(Of course I came. You said you wanted me to be here.)_ Sherlock clears his throat. “Yes, well, it turns out that tonight was free so I thought I’d stop in…”

 

John grins ever wider somehow. “I’m glad you did. Did you just get here?” He glances at Sherlock’s coat and the packages in his hands with some curiosity.

 

“I’ve been wandering for awhile,” Sherlock replies, nodding. He glances down at the packages as well and blinks. “This top one is for you.”

 

_(This was a stupid idea. Abort. Now.)_

 

John hesitantly takes the gift and smiles up at Sherlock. “Thank-you…”

 

“You should wait until Christmas to open it,” Sherlock adds, trying to sound casual and failing. _(Just don’t open it around me.)_

“Should?” John quirks an eyebrow. “What if I don’t?”

 

 _(You shit.)_ “You’ll regret the surprise and joy it brings on Christmas day.” _(Should have aborted while the option was still available…)_

 

John laughs in that easy way of his. “All right, all right. I’ll wait,” he tells him brightly. “Who’s the other one for?”

 

“Lestrade…” he mumbles, glancing around.

 

“Oh.” _(Disappointment? Why?)_ “He’s over there.” John points next to where the coworker is DJing. “I hope he’s telling Mike to play something else…”

 

 _(Mike. That explains the music.)_ Sherlock hums noncommittally. “Will you give it to him? I think I’m going to go home.”

 

John’s head whips back around, scrutinizing Sherlock in that doctorly way he’s known for. “Are you sure?” _(Definitely disappointment…)_ “I mean, it’s not that bad, is it?”

 

Sherlock smirks. “I suppose I can stay long enough to give Lestrade his present.”

 

John beams at him. “Let me get you some eggnog?” Before Sherlock can protest, tell him he doesn’t drink the crud, the blond is off, weaving through the crowd with nothing less than expertise.

 

With a heavy sigh, Sherlock makes his way up to Lestrade, offering up his gift. “For Christmas,” he says shortly.

 

Lestrade stares at the gift, jaw slack. “Is this a joke?”

 

_(Just because I call you an idiot on a daily basis doesn’t mean I hate you.)_

 

“No. Merry Christmas,” Sherlock says, pushing the package into his hands. “Open it on Christmas, not tonight.”

 

Lestrade takes it, fumbling a bit in surprise. “Th-thanks.”

 

Sherlock wanders away, heading for the exit. Maybe he can escape before-- _(John.)_ “Here.” The blond offers up a red cup partially filled with eggnog.

 

“I, er, thank-you…” He takes it with defeat. _(Bloody fucking eggnog. Why can’t I just say I hate it?)_ He takes a sip and smiles weakly. “Yum.”

 

John laughs, shaking his head. “If you don’t like it, you don’t have to finish it.”

 

Sherlock takes one more deep gulp but can’t hide his shiver. “I won’t. I really should go home, though....”

 

“I thought you said that you had the night free?” John cocks an eyebrow.

 

_(Damn it.)_

 

“I do but I don’t like driving in the dark; I have to take a taxi,” he tries, feeling worse off after each word. _(Stop digging your own grave and LEAVE.)_ “I’m just going to go now. Have a good night.” He attempts to walk past John and sloshes his drink as the blond catches his arm.

 

“I can take you home?” John offers, smiling.

 

 _(No, you can’t. Inappropriate. What will Lestrade think?)_ “It’s no big deal,” he says and tries to move past him again.

 

“Nah, come on,” John pulls his keys out and dangles them in front of Sherlock. “No big deal, honest.”

 

“You don’t know where I live. What if I’m out of your way?” Sherlock mumbles, only halfheartedly trying to be heard over the noise.

 

John grins and raises his eyebrow. “Where do you live?” _(He’s being… What’s that word? Flirtatious?)_ Sherlock rattles off his address, even though the look on John’s face says he already knows somehow. “That’s on my way. Come on then.”

 

“You arranged this thing, didn’t you? Don’t you want to stay?” Sherlock asks in one last ditch effort.

 

John glances over his shoulder at Lestrade who is shaking the package by his ear. “Nah, I think Greg’s got this.”

 

 _(Is that his name? I never remember; such a dull name.)_ He starts following the blond as they head out of the room. _(But so is John… Lestrade is obviously less important here.)_

 

They’re quiet until they get down to the main floor of the building and John sighs loudly. “Thank God. Some quiet.”

 

Sherlock smiles a bit. “It is rather nice…” _(I never took him as one to enjoy huge gatherings. Too many people.)_

 

“I don’t know why I ever agree to go to these things,” John admits, going to the driver’s side of the car. “I hate them so much. I mean, I really hate people, to be honest.”

 

“I know,” Sherlock tells him, waiting for the _click_ of the door unlocking. He climbs in, watching John put the gift carefully into the backseat of his car before hopping in the front.

 

John glances at him with a sly smile. “I know you know.”

 

 _(He knows I know? What does that mean? Why is he… The eggnog.)_ Sherlock peers into the cup he’d forgotten to throw away and then up at John. “How many glasses of eggnog did you have?”

 

John blinks slowly, the realisation dawning much slower than it had for Sherlock. “Oh, shit. I didn’t even…”

 

 _(Drinks too much to not be able to taste the alcohol? Unlikely.)_ “I can… I can drive. Who lives closer?”

 

“I thought you didn’t like to drive in the dark,” John mutters, pouting slightly.

 

“You’re thinking way too much tonight,” Sherlock bites, rolling his eyes. _(Is that rude?)_

 

John laughs, obviously surprised. “I guess I probably am. I think you live closer. Here.” He hands him the keys and they get out, switching sides. Sherlock feels his hands shake slightly as he sets the cup into the cup-holder and shoves the key into the ignition. _(I hate driving in general. I do it anyway.)_ “How did you know the eggnog was spiked?”

 

“It tasted off,” Sherlock lies, not sure if he’s willing to admit how much he actually knows about John’s mannerisms to be able to tell the difference.

 

John sighs and leans back as Sherlock pulls out and starts toward his home. “I’m a moron. That was stupid.” Sherlock snorts. _(Not the way he wanted the night to go. Interesting.)_ “What? What’s so funny?”

 

Sherlock clears his throat. “You’re not stupid,” he tells him, keeping his eyes steadfastly forward. “Just unobservant.”

 

John’s quiet a minute. _(Did I say something that hurt his feelings? Was THAT rude?)_ “I don’t know which is worse -- getting a backhanded compliment from you or knowing that you’re right.”

 

“It wasn’t backhanded…” Sherlock huffs, frowning. _(It wasn’t a compliment either?)_ “Most people are unobservant. Also, most people are idiots.” John groans. “What do you care what I think?”

 

“What do I care?” John asks, incredulous. “You’re brilliant. You’re… I mean, come on, you’re twenty-eight and you’re easily, hands down, the best tech we have in the whole company.”

 

Sherlock snorts, feeling his face flushed. _(I am. But he knows that?)_ “Well… Thank-you…” He’s the youngest tech in the building, and he easily outdoes everyone else. Of course, Lestrade knows about it because he’s the boss. _(By default, doesn’t John then know? Moron. You’re just as bad as the rest of them.)_

 

“It’s true, though,” John insists, leaning toward him a bit. “And you’re just simply brilliant. I know you know things about people they don’t want anyone to know.”

 

“You should really stop talking now,” Sherlock sighs, flushing deeper as he pulls up to his house. _(Wait. Did I agree to this? I can’t have him on the road tipsy. So he’s staying at my place now?)_ He shuts off the car and sits there for a moment before getting out. “Let’s go inside. It’s cold out here.”

 

John doesn’t argue, climbing out of the car and following him inside. “So this is it?” _(Bad? Good? What kind of reaction is that?)_ “This is fantastic. I love it. It’s very you.”

 

“I meant what I said before about not talking,” Sherlock mumbles, flustered as he closes the door behind them and locks up. “I have a spare room…”

 

John glances at him with a sort of smirk. “Okay. Lead on.”

 

 _(Flirtatious doesn’t even cover the whole of what he’s being right now.)_ He leads him down the hall toward the spare room. _(This is a horrible idea. What am I doing?)_ “Here we are.” He pushes open the door to the spare room and flicks on the light. It’s simple, one bed and a bedside table with a dresser opposite the bed.

 

“Cozy,” John hums and wanders in.

 

Sherlock stands there for a moment before offering, “I can find you some clothes that might fit?” _(Horrible, awful idea.)_

 

“Sherlock, can I ask you something?” John turns around, looking him over. _(I really shouldn’t have turned on the light. I’m probably tomato red. God, I’m so stupid.)_ He nods. “Do you really think I’m unobservant?” Sherlock blinks and gets no time to answer as John steps up to him, inches in front of him, their noses almost touching. “Because the eggnog wasn’t spiked.”

 

His brain takes way too long to catch up. _(Not the eggnog? If it’s not the eggnog… He’s not normally like this… Is he like this? Is it… Oh. Me?)_ “I, er, I don’t get your meaning,” Sherlock leans back a bit, not wanting to seem too eager to kiss his assistant manager.

 

John rolls his eyes and smashes their lips together. Any thoughts that were beginning to form suddenly vanish into thin air and he forgets how to breathe. John releases him shortly after, but stays close. “Do you get my meaning now?”

 

Sherlock glances over John’s shoulder and then back at the blond in front of him. “The eggnog wasn’t spiked. You honestly like me.”

 

His tone must tip off John because he leans back a little, studying him carefully. “You sound surprised…”

 

“I am,” Sherlock replies instantly. _(No one likes me…)_

 

John smiles. “I told you that you were brilliant. I guess I forgot to tell you that you’re incredibly sexy and that _voice_ …” He groans, _actually groans_ , and Sherlock tips his head back into the wall that he hadn’t realised had gotten that close. “It’s a good thing there’s a bedroom right behind me, don’t you think so?”

 

“Shouldn’t there be talking involved first?” Sherlock huffs, trying to convince himself that restraint is important here.

 

“Maybe after?” John suggests hesitantly. “I don’t plan on going anywhere… I mean, I guess I’m kind of assuming but, you, I don’t know… It just seemed like you…”

 

Sherlock scoffs, catching them both off guard with the sound. “I don’t mean to make myself obvious…” _(Am I obvious? I didn’t mean to be. I tried so hard to be normal. Am I abnormal?)_ He flinches at his own thoughts.

 

John blinks and rubs Sherlock’s arms comfortingly. “The gift kind of tipped you off, Sherlock,” John tells him softly, smiling kindly. “You hate Lestrade.”

 

“Everyone’s misconception,” Sherlock sighs dramatically. “I don’t hate him just because he’s the most irritating person in the building.”

 

“Well, regardless,” John laughs, beaming up at Sherlock. “Back to the matter at hand?”

 

 _(Sexy John, smart John, kind John…)_ “Yes. The bedroom behind us…” He pushes gently at John’s shoulders and they move into the bedroom together. “Talk about this later. Because I will make crepes in the morning.”

 

“You can cook?” John whines, flopping rather ungracefully onto the bed. “I am very sorry this hasn’t happened sooner.”

 

 _(Sooner… Just this? Or the whole thing? Talking involved? What’s going to happen after the holidays?)_ Sherlock freezes, eyes wide. “What happens after the holidays, Sunday, when we all go back?”

 

John frowns up at him, propping himself up on elbows. “Nothing? We all just go back? Sherlock… It’s not like we’re interfering at work. Our personal lives stay at the door. I’ll still take you on dates, which I plan to do tomorrow since it’s too late tonight. And at work, nothing will change except we’ll _know_. It won’t be this pretending we can’t tell.”

  
Sherlock visibly relaxes. “Thank-you…” he mutters and falls into John’s arms for what John will later tell him is his early Christmas present.


	21. December 21: Fairytales (Fawnlock)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've known I wanted to post this on the 21st since I started this collection. The whole framework didn't come into place until a weekish ago and I wasn't positive on it until a few days ago. I don't LOVE this, but I don't hate it, either. My first dip into the pool that is Faunlock and I might try again with a longer piece in the future. (Just not in this collection.) 
> 
> Even though I wrote, like, a whole page the night before, I still felt too behind for what I'd wanted. But it is what it is and I at least got to taste this. :) 
> 
> I hope you enjoy and Happy Yule! <3 <3 <3

 

John’s huddled by the fire, scowling at the flames. He’s still cold. The bones in his body feel more fragile with the bitterness of the air. It irritates him that he feels so vulnerable and frail in his old age.

 

The door clicks open and his grandkids rushes inside with noisy chatter and laughter that makes his frown relent into a soft smile. “Granpa, Granpa!” one of the little boys, Jason, hollers, running over to him. “We built a snowman!”

 

“Did you, now?” John smiles and settles back, folding his hands over his stomach. “Well, why don’t you all take your jackets off and come get warm?”

 

Jason nods enthusiastically and goes to get his sisters, Ella and Michelle. They all peel off their layers and hurry back into the living room, piling the couch pillows onto the floor. Jason grabs the blanket off the back of the couch and wraps the three of them in it. “Will you tell us a story, Granpa?” Ella asks, beaming up at him. “We love your stories.”

 

John’s smile grows wider, falling for the buttering up his grandkids are attempting. “What would you like to hear?”

 

They confer between each other a moment and then Ella says, “A magic story. Maybe a love story.”

 

“A magical love story?” John raises an eyebrow as he thinks. “I think I have the perfect one. It’s a bit long. Are you comfy?” They all nod enthusiastically, wide eyes trained excitedly on their grandfather. “Alright. Let’s see… I suppose we should start in the very beginning.

 

“A long time ago, many years before you or I, there was a woodland nymph who lived in the forest. For the sake of the story, we’ll call the nymph Martin…”

 

_Deep in the woods, away from prying eyes, there’s a sense of magic that most have forgotten exists. The snow is nothing more than a dusting in the air, as if powdered sugar is being sifted onto the Earth. John sits on one of the high branches of a tree, watching the forest bustle about._

_Frost fairies are busy touching the twigs of the hibernating trees, dusting each delicate pine needle with white. The gnomes are helping the rabbits keep their hiding holes clear of the unrelenting snow. Birds chirp loudly at each other, singing and laughing and filling the air with the joy of their hearts. There’s the soft crunch of hooves as mixtures of deer and fauns weave their way through the trees._

_Being a woodland nymph, John has seen many things. He’s spoken to many creatures and he adores many more. The seasons bring different creatures that touch life to everything in different, creative ways. He loves to see it all. But this day brings something new._

_A young faun is among the herd that passes through, and he’s more curious, less hesitant, than the others. He watches a frost fairy touch a small pool of water under a fallen tree and stops, stooping down to inspect her work. She huffs and shoos him away, distracted by his presence. Instead of listening, he makes a soft sound and sniffs at her. Absolutely offended, she flutters off._

_John laughs hard enough that he tips back off his branch. “Little faun,” he says, climbing down as though he were born a squirrel -- one of the neighbors squeaks at him as he almost catches his door. “Sorry,” he mutters, peering into the knot where he hides. He hops onto the ground, snow protesting beneath his feet. “Little faun.” he sighs again, approaching the curious thing slowly._

_The faun is tall, standing on two legs. From his torso up is mostly human, though fur grows in abundance around his throat and down his chest. His ears are more deerlike, flicking this way and that at every soft sound, and he has more of a snout than a nose. His eyes are wide, somewhere between a forest green and a sky blue, and alert. The colouring of his fur is dark around his throat and chest, lightening on his legs and ears into a softer maple tree trunk shade. He opens his mouth, perhaps to say something, but changes his mind and keeps silence._

_“You’re a very curious thing, aren’t you?” John asks kindly, smiling brightly at the faun. John hasn’t mastered the language, mostly because his tongue cannot do the same thing that deer and faun tongues can do, but he uses his mind to fill in the gaps. The faun bleats indignantly, standing up straighter. “Not a bad thing, not at all. Different, though, don’t you think?”_

_The faun huffs and rolls his eyes before going to find his herd, who all had continued on as if the young faun hadn’t stopped to investigate. John watches him go, wonder in his heart._

 

“They meet again a few times in this manner.” John shifts, stretching his leg out. “And a sort of friendship arises from it.”

 

“So fast?” Michelle asks skeptically.

 

John smiles in a knowing sort of way. “Sometimes, there is no timeframe for how quickly things begin. His name, to Martin’s tongue, was Faunlock.”

 

_Faunlock is a ridiculous thing. He’s too curious for his own good, most days. His antlers must be a recent acquisition because he keeps trying to fit into places that they won’t go. A few times, they get stuck in the branches of a pine and John tries very hard not to laugh as he helps untangle the very embarassed creature. They don’t speak aloud, but through their minds._

_It’s one day as John is building a snowman in the middle of a glade, that Faunlock finds him. He hides behind trees, trying to take the suggestion of being more hesitant seriously. John knows that in the creature’s heart, he fears very little, though. John glances up when he hears a stray twig snap under his hoof. **Hello, you,** he thinks, smiling at the faun._

_Happy that he doesn’t have to keep up the pretense anymore, Faunlock hurries over and begins to investigate the snowman. **What is it? How is it made? What’s it for? Why are you piling snow like this for fun?** His questions are rapidfire and John stands back to let him circle the unfinished snowman, grinning stupidly._

_He’s never really become anything but close acquaintances with other creatures. The most intimate relationship he’s ever had was a very deep friendship with a mountain elf. But that was many years ago; her heart sent her deeper into the mountains and his deeper into the forest. Faunlock has been pulling similar feelings from him, perhaps even more intricate, and he’s not sure about them anymore. **It’s called a snowman. In a moment, he’ll have a face and arms.**_

_Faunlock spins to look at him with wide eyes. **Magic?** he asks, as if he fully believes John will turn it into a more humanesque form. John shakes his head and pulls the stones he’d collected earlier from his pocket. He walks back over to his snowman and pushes each stone carefully into the snow until a smiling face takes shape, along with a few buttons down its front. **Silly,** Faunlock huffs as he watches. **No arms. No nose, either.**_

 

_**I have to find those,** John tells him and glances around the glade. He points to some small branches and inquires, **Will you get me two, please?** Faunlock follows where he is pointing and scrunches his nose in confusion as he goes to get them. John pulls a holly berry from his other pocket and puts it in the place of a nose. Faunlock comes back with the branches, offering them over curiously. John carefully shoves each branch into the sides and stands back. **It is rather silly. But it was fun to make. And now the forest can relish in the joy it brings.**_

_Faunlock sniffs the snowman and then stands by John. **It doesn’t look like a man,** he says with a tilt of his head. He turns to John and smiles. **Come play now.**_

_Not one to deny him the pleasures of play, John grins and nods. **What do you have in mind today?**_

 

“Faunlock sounds silly,” Ella giggles, hiding her face in her hands. “I’d like to meet him!”

 

John laughs but, before he can respond, Michelle asks, “When do they fall in love, though?”

 

“Oh, they were in love the moment they first met,” John replies simply, shrugging his shoulders. “It might sound silly to you, but there’s always so much magic in the air, that nothing ever happens by accident. I still believe that when I walk down the streets in the city.” John doesn’t go to the city much, not if he can help it. But his daughter lives there and, sometimes, it’s nice to visit her and his grandkids. “The universe brought them together. The day they built that snowman was the day they _really_ started to understand their feelings for each other.”

 

Jason scrunches his nose but the girls giggle. “What happens next?” he prompts, obviously trying to move past this sappy part.

 

John nods and closes his eyes a moment. “They fall deeper in love, and admit it. Not in so many words, no. They wouldn’t know how, you know?”

 

_John wakes one morning to find Faunlock curled up against his back. He stretches leisurely, chuckling at the soft, indignant bleat that comes from the sleepy creature. **What are you doing?** he inquires gently. He rather likes the warmth coming from his friend. Faunlock hadn’t been tired when John had fallen asleep; instead, he had been sitting a few feet away with ears alert as he looked around. The last thing John remembers hearing was Faunlock make a rather endearing sound at an owl who had offered to stay watch while they slept._

_**You were cold,** Faunlock tells him quietly, a little bit of defensiveness in his tone. John doesn’t get cold, not really. His own inner flame keeps him warm; it’s how he was born to survive in the woods. But he doesn’t tell the little faun this. **Are you awake now? Let’s find breakfast?**_

_John yawns and rolls onto his back, looking up at Faunlock. On a whim, he leans up and gives a soft peck of a kiss to his nose. Faunlock licks at his nose, ears twitching in surprise. **You’re so silly.**_

_**What was that?** Faunlock asks, tilting his head curiously down at the nymph._

_**A kiss. A form of affection.** John feels butterflies in his stomach and he wonders when they arrived._

_Faunlock mulls this over. **Another then. Your affection is endearing.**_

_John laughs and sits up, leaning over to kiss up to the top of his head. **You know, it’s Winter Solstice tonight.**_

 

_Faunlock’s ears twitch as he sits up more fully. **Magic,** he says reverently, because of course that’s what he remembers about the holiday. That and -- **Food!**_

_**Do you think with anything other than your stomach?** John teases and rubs his ears._

“What’s winter solstice?” Jason asks, brow scrunched.

 

“Winter solstice is the shortest day of the year,” John answers patiently. “Our ancestors used to celebrate it as a new beginning, of sorts. Their celebrations are what started our modern day Christmas. There was a Yule log, instead of a Christmas tree, though…”

 

Michelle leaned forward, hands wrapped around her ankles. “A Yule log? Mama makes those for Christmas!”

 

John nods knowingly. “The cake, yes. I taught her that. Anyway, the two were very excited about the night…”

 

_**Faunlock, you’re going faster than even I can move!** John’s chasing the little faun through the woods, hopping over logs and ducking under branches. He’s always thought that he was quick, being that he was basically born from the Earth herself, but Faunlock was proving how wrong he was. **I highly doubt that the log will vanish before we get there!**_

_The tinkling little laugh that emits from the faun is quite suddenly cut off by a very loud screech that makes John’s heart temporarily stop. **John, John, John.** His name is literally the only thing Faunlock is thinking and he forces himself past his limits, tearing ahead._

_The trees get thicker and closer together before he sees the faun, caught in about three different hunting traps, one being a snaptrap that John can’t look at without his stomach rolling violently. He untangles him from the other two, holding him close. His own mind is painfully blank._

 

“There was nothing that Martin could do that would be enough,” John says, his voice thick. The kids all gape at him, horror in their eyes. “The Faun was going to die.”

 

“No!” Michelle yelled, jerking forward. “He can’t!”

 

John smiles a bit, something faded and sad. “On Yule, Winter Solstice, the magic is heavier and thicker than any other time of year… His fate was left to the Universe. It told him that he had only two choices: he could either die or he could become human.”

 

Ella gasps and Jason cries, “What did he choose?”

 

_Faunlock looks up at him with wide, terrified eyes. He can’t even think straight; he bleats softly. John’s chest tightens painfully._

 

“He didn’t choose,” John mutters, staring off into the distance. “Martin chose for him… He gave him life, as a human. It was not easy for Martin, but Faunlock was in too much pain and panic to choose for himself. It was a selfish decision, really. Martin couldn’t imagine living without knowing he was alive somewhere.”

 

The kids are quiet a moment and then Michelle asks, “Is that it? That’s not the end, is it?”

 

John smiles, coming back to himself. “Oh, no. It took a year for Faunlock to adjust to his life as a human. It was completely different -- the way they walked, talked, they dressed. He had to change his name to make it sound more human, too. Martin had to attempt to adjust without his faun. But, on the following Yule, he was given an opportunity.”

 

“What was it?” Ella asks, eyes wide.

 

“He could give up being a nymph, become a human, and live with Faunlock for the rest of their lives,” John tells them in a hushed voice.

 

“Did he take it?” Jason demands, gripping his knees.

 

John chuckles. “Of course he took it. He couldn’t imagine living without his faun for eternity.” The kids all cheer happily just as the door opens. John’s daughter, Elizabeth, walks in and the kids hop up to tell their mum the story.

 

Sherlock wanders over from his hiding place by the kitchen and climbs into John’s lap, startling him. “I’m not that young anymore, you,” he huffs, but wraps his arms around him anyway.

 

“Martin was not a very creative name, you know,” Sherlock mumbles into his neck, still young at heart and still a sap.

 

“My real name isn’t all that creative,” John replies easily. “Sometimes I wish they’d give your ears back… And your little bleats; cute noises they were.”

 

Sherlock scoffs indignantly. “They weren’t noises. I was talking to you!”

 

John grins. “And what were you saying?”

 

“I was saying ‘thank-you’ and ‘I love you’ and ‘I promise’...” Sherlock informs him quietly, keeping his face hidden.

 

“Promise what?” John inquires, resting his chin on his partner’s head.

 

He doesn’t answer right away. When he does, it’s in his tiniest voice. “I promise I’ll be there for you and always love you…”

 

John kisses his head. “I promise you the same thing, love. Happy Yule.” Sherlock hums contentedly, smiling into his neck.

 

_John’s standing in front of his faun, amongst so many strangers in the brick and concrete forest of man. They’re both so startled at seeing each other that they’re momentarily speechless. Finally, though, John walks up to him, grinning widely. “Faunlock?”_

_“It’s Sherlock now,” he says, voice wavering slightly. “I had to change it make it sound more human…” John reaches up and touches his cheek. “What took you so long?”_

_John chuckles and rests their foreheads together, ignoring the odd stares around them. “The Universe has a way of making things happen the moment they need to happen.”_

_Sherlock makes a soft, happy sound in the back of his throat. “I’m glad I don’t have to wait anymore…”_

_  
“So am I,” John mutters before kissing him sweetly._


	22. December 22: Winter Wonderland

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm honestly not sure this actually falls into the prompt but... I had zero time today so I kind of threw it all together and hoped for the best. 
> 
> I need more kidlock in my life, though...
> 
> Hope you enjoy this more than I did! Please review if you feel so inclined! :D

****_John: 9; Sherlock: 7_

 

“Sherlock! Sherlock! Wake up! It’s snowing!”

 

Sherlock rolled onto his stomach as John leaped onto his bed, shaking his shoulders jerkily. “Let it snow, then,” he mumbles into his pillow. “It’ll be there when I wake up.”

 

John laughed and sat next to him, pulling the blankets back from his head. “Come on, Sherlock! I want to go out now, before the other boys mess it all up.”

 

They were staying in an all-boys academy, neither willing to go home for the holidays because of their family situations. It was their first year and they’d formed a close friendship early on. John loved the snow, and loved to pester Sherlock. So what better way to do that than to bug him about it snowing when it was too early for him to even consider being awake?

 

“You’re such a pest!” Sherlock shouted, the sound muted by the pillow. “I don’t want to go outside right now when I can continue sleeping in a nice warm bed!”

 

John grinned, shaking him again. “No, wake up! I want us to go have fun! Before the bigger boys mess with all the snow. We can go make snow angels and snowmen and have a snowball fight!”

 

“It’s too early,” Sherlock grumbled, looking up at his friend with a pout. “I don’t wanna.”

 

John flopped on top of him and started tickling his sides. “Get up, get up!” he squealed happily.

 

Sherlock laughed and kicked at him, squirming. “Stop! Stop it! Joooohn!” He wiggled out from under him and pounced at him, tickling his stomach. “You’re so rude!”

 

John flailed and rolled them both off the bed. “You’re awake! Let’s get dressed and go!” he cried, scrambling up and going to his trunk. Sherlock groaned dramatically and got up off the floor, going to his own trunk.

 

“I hate you,” he mumbled and John threw a shirt at him.

 

\--

 

It’s still snowing when they wandered downstairs and out the doors. John made Sherlock skip breakfast to go outside. “It’s a wonderland!” John cried, spinning in a circle with his arms wide. “Isn’t it pretty, Sherlock?”

 

“It’s freezing,” Sherlock grumbled, hugging himself. “Where do you get ‘pretty’?”

 

John laughed in his goodnatured way. “I think it’s amazing…” He flopped back into the snow and started making an angel. “Come on! Make one with me!”

 

“You’re stupid. You’re going to catch a cold…” Sherlock watched him and then rolled his eyes. “Why do you love the snow so much?”

 

John peered up at him with a frown. “It’s pretty and soft and new… It’s like it’s cleaning the earth, like rain except you can see it better.” He paused and then asked, “Why don’t you like it?”

 

“It’s cold and wet,” Sherlock told him with a huge pout.

 

“You’re actually a cat, aren’t you?” John sat up and shook snow off his arms. “Sherlock… Come lay down with me. I want to show you how I see it.”

 

Sherlock debated with himself for a moment before he marched over to John and sat down next to him. John picked up a handful of snow and put it up to Sherlock’s face. “So?”

 

John smiled patiently. “Look at all the little crystals and how the sun glints off each one.” His friend inspected it carefully and then glanced up at the sky, at all the little snowflakes falling. “My dad used to love the snow…” His eyes turned wistful. “He used to go build forts with me and Harry.”

 

“What happened to your dad?” Sherlock asked quietly, kicking gently at the snow. Sherlock had never asked before, though he always used past tense terms when talking about his father. His curiosity was finally getting the better of him.

 

John sighed and laid back down. “He was in the military… He got shot and didn’t come home…” He glanced at Sherlock. “It was just a few months before I came here.”

 

Sherlock stared at him. “It’s not the snow you love, John,” he muttered carefully. “It’s the memory of your dad…”

 

John smiled sadly. “Kind of…” They stayed there until they got cold and went inside.

 

_Twenty years later…_

 

“John! Get up! It’s snowing!”

 

Sherlock hopped onto their bed, kissing the back of his neck. “You get nicer and nicer every year,” John mumbled, turning his head to look up at Sherlock.

 

“No, I just learn what works best on you,” Sherlock answered, grinning. “Get up, I want to show you something.”

 

John stretched out, looking similar to a cat. “Okay, okay. Give me just a minute to wake up a little more.” Sherlock sighed dramatically and flopped back next to him. “Patience, love.”

 

“I have none,” Sherlock mumbled, sounding very put upon. “That’s what you’re here for.”

 

John chuckled and threw the blankets aside, forcing himself out of bed. “Alright, what is it you want to show me? Besides the fact that it’s snowing?”

 

Sherlock climbed off the bed as well, hurrying toward the door. “Come on then!” John grinned as he followed Sherlock into the sitting room. He now had time to look his partner over, noticing how the bottoms of his trousers were wet and he was shivering slightly. He frowned curiously as they headed to the window. “Here, look out.”

 

John glanced at him, puzzled, before peering out. He reeled back immediately, surprised. “What?” He pressed his palms against the window when he went back, staring in shock at the street. “How even…?”

 

“Answer first and then explanations,” Sherlock demanded, showing just how nervous he was.

 

“Yes, of course,” John smiled up at him. “Of course. Is there any other answer?”

 

“I blocked off the road,” Sherlock told him with a shrug, looking adorably unapologetic.

 

“You can’t have had an OK for that…” John tried to reprimand. But he was very distracted by the fact that Sherlock had asked him to marry him via message in the snow. He took another look, in awe. He wondered how long it had taken him to do that. When he turned back, Sherlock was holding a ring up for him. “You’re absolutely brilliant.”

  
Sherlock grinned hugely. “Oh, I know.”


	23. December 23: Grinch/Scrooge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally wrote 90% of this in half an hour. I've been up for... 16, almost 17 hours and I've got to do it all again tomorrow... And more. 
> 
> I'll keep it short because I'm exhausted. I hope you enjoy this. I have absolutely no idea how it turned out, beyond that it's a lot less intricate than I wanted when I came up with it. But oh well. I at least got something out on time.
> 
> Please review if you feel so inclined! <3

“It’s all just _noise_!” Sherlock shouts, shaking his hair out as he and John walk into the flat. He’s tired and irritated and the lights are burning his eyes. He’s running on two hours of sleep, it being the third day he’s been awake. They’ve been working a case and Sherlock’s lost track of what day it even is.

 

John knows; he knows it’s the day before Christmas Eve and Sherlock’s just tired. Still, his irritation is wearing on him. “Sherlock, stop it. Just… Go lay down and you’ll feel better when you get up,” he says as patiently as he can manage.

 

Sherlock glares at him. “It’s this damn holiday, John. Everyone is so preoccupied by silly things. And murder.” He pauses, contemplating his last statement. “The murder makes it tolerable.”

 

“ _That’s_ what’s important about this holiday?” John snaps, finally losing his cool. “You’re joking, right? ‘Dear Father Christmas, please stick a nice complicated murder under the tree, will you?’ You’re bloody insane.”

 

Sherlock huffs and flops onto the couch. “Oh, piss off,” he tells him grumpily in return. “It’s just Christmas, after all.”

 

John narrows his eyes before heading to their room. “You are such a Scrooge!” he yells, slamming their door.

 

Sherlock remains on the couch, brow furrowed at John’s words. It’s not the first time he’s called him something rude but this one bothers him a bit more. He knows that the holiday is important to his partner -- it always has been, even if they don’t formally celebrate it every year or get interrupted when they try. To him, it’s long since lost its meaning. He falls asleep with a frown on his face.

 

He dreams of Molly coming to him, revisiting past Christmases. All the fun times as a child, and the one that made the holiday sour for the longest time.

 

_“I never loved you! How could anyone love something that doesn’t feel?” Victor had shouted, arms thrown wide in defeat._

 

_Sherlock threw an empty bottle of beer at his head, which he narrowly missed, and watched it shatter against the dingy wall. “Get out! Go away!” he screamed, crouching onto the floor and holding his head. “It’s your fault I’m the mess I am today!” It was only partially true at the time but he felt better saying it anyway._

 

_Victor had slammed the door behind him, leaving unsaid words hanging in the air and the bitter taste of reality in his mouth._

 

There’s the vague haze of his first Christmas with John, playing the violin for him and Mrs. Hudson. It’s bittersweet and leaves him waking with disappointment. He stares at the window, now dark. He stands and stretches and considers going to his bedroom but decides against it. John would have come to get him, worrying about his neck, if he wanted him. He stands by the window and watches it snow for a few minutes before laying back down on the couch.

 

His dreams this time are of Greg and his children, visiting his wife. They’re happy, making fun at his expense. They’re of Mrs. Hudson, in her flat below, puttering about and getting goodies together for the following day. They’re of John, alone in their bedroom, upset as he stares at the package addressed to Sherlock.

 

When he wakes again, it’s with longing. But before he can even contemplate going to his room, sleep overtakes him again and he falls victim to it.

 

The dreams are darker this time, mimicking the Christmases he’d spent away from those he’d cared most about. They’re of John being angry and guilty and sad, sitting with yet another girlfriend.

 

Sherlock snaps awake with a gasp, toppling a pillow as he falls off the couch with a thud. It’s bright again; early morning. John comes hurrying out of the bedroom, walking to where Sherlock is sprawled. “Are you okay?” he asks, concerned.

 

Sherlock stares up at him in awe. “What time is it? What day?”

 

John blinks slowly, the concern increasing. “December twenty-fourth. And when I glanced at my clock, it read seven-sixteen in the morning. Did you hit your head?”

 

“No, I’m fine,” Sherlock dismisses and forces himself to his feet. “I think I’m going to take a proper nap and then I have a few errands to run. Will you call Greg and Molly, let’s invite them over tonight? I know it’s short notice but Greg won’t go to visit his kids until tomorrow.”

 

“What’s going on?” John inquires, baffled.

 

“It’s _Christmas_ , John!” Sherlock shouts, gripping his shoulders and then leaning in and kissing him. “I love you. I hope you know.”

 

John smiles slowly. “I love you, too…”

 

“Will you invite them over?” Sherlock asks, to be sure.

 

“We don’t really have anything to serve… Should I ask Mrs. Hudson?” John bites his lip.

 

Sherlock shakes his head. “Errands, John. Invite her, too. I’ll play my violin later.” He heads for the bedroom but pauses. “Maybe you could come lay down with me for a few before you invite them?”

 

John smiles wider. “I’ll text them. Problem solved.” He follows Sherlock to their room where they curl up in bed together. Sherlock drapes his long arms around John and nuzzles his hair. “I don’t know what got into you but I like it... “

 

“I’m not sure it’ll last past Christmas,” Sherlock admits, feeling a bit silly now.

 

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there,” John assures him and kisses his nose. “Merry Christmas, love.”

  
“Not quite,” Sherlock huffs, smiling.


	24. December 24: Opening Gifts/Christmas Eve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been so busy with wrapping presents, I didn't really get a moment to sit down and write. But here it is. If I have time tomorrow, I might do one more -- no promises.
> 
> Btw, I really just wanted an excuse to write Sherlock with a lisp and I need more of it in my life. It's such a headcanon that he used to have one and that's why he says his 'ts's and 's's so sharply now.
> 
> I hope this is okay! I only had a disconnected idea and trying to fit them together at the same time I was watching "A Christmas Story" was probably the worst idea I've ever had. So I really hope I didn't screw up too many times, writing whatever I was watching instead of what I was thinking. XD
> 
> Please review if you feel so inclined. I've appreciated everyone who's been here this month and everyone who's been reviewing and leaving kudos and bookmarking and silently stalking this without any notes at all. Merry Christmas!! I hope you all have a great one full of memories and joy!! <3 <3 <3

He’s not lonely, not really. But having a friend would be nice if he could get one.

 

Sherlock sits on his front steps, chin in his hands. It’s snowing lightly, the ground already white and half-frozen. He’s too small to build a snowman on his own -- not one that would be big enough to count. He doesn’t have anyone to have a snowball fight with -- except Mycroft, who would just call it silly. He _could_ build a fort but his mum would wonder and ask him stupid questions.

 

He sighs loudly and drops his head to his knees. He hears someone approach but doesn’t look up. “Hello,” a boy says quietly, nervously.

 

Sherlock finally lets his curiosity get the better of him and he peeks. A boy a little older than him is standing in front of him, arms behind his back as he anxiously rocks back and forth on his feet. He’s wearing a huge coat that doesn’t fit him quite right and big boots. He’s got blond hair and interestingly blue-grey eyes and a shy smile. Sherlock does not recognise him. He sits up a bit and asks, “Who’re you?”

 

The boy’s smile widens a bit, softens around the edges. “My name is John Watson. I just moved in a few days ago down the street.” He gestures to his right and Sherlock glances down the road.

 

Oh. That’s who he is. “I’m Therlock Holmeth.” He curses everything that is that he never bothered to learn how to say his ‘s’s.

 

John wrinkles his brow, still smiling, and tentatively asks, “Sherlock Holmes?” Sherlock nods impatiently. “It’s nice to meet you, Sherlock.” He holds out his hand to shake.

 

Sherlock shakes it cautiously and inquires, “Why did you come over?” He lets go of John’s hand and stares up at him.

 

“You looked bored,” John says with a shrug. “I thought maybe you’d like to play with me?”

 

Sherlock blinks slowly. “You want me to come play with you?” He’s honestly baffled. At six years old, he’s already got a knack for pissing everyone off. “Play what?”

 

John grins goofily. “I dunno. What do you like to play?”

 

“Pirateth, mothly,” Sherlock tells him quietly. “I have an eyepatch and a hat I got for my birthday.”

 

“Really? Can I see?” John asks, sounding eager.

 

“I’ll be right back,” Sherlock replies and dashes inside. He runs up to his room and grabs the things before almost tripping down the stairs in his haste. He ignores his mum who tries to ask what’s so exciting. He doesn’t want John to disappear. He’s a bit surprised when he steps outside and John’s still waiting patiently for him. “Thee?” He holds up the hat and eye patch. “You can wear the hat, if you want.”

 

“Sure!” John takes the offered hat and puts it on his head. “How old are you, anyway?” He adjusts the hat and puts his hands on his hips.

 

Sherlock wrinkles his nose. “Thix,” he admits with a put upon sigh.

 

“You still have a lisp at six?” John sounds surprised as he drops his hands.

 

Sherlock narrows his eyes. Maybe he should have handed him the hat _after_ this question, assuming he’ll even want to to play after they get through with this part of the conversation. “I never needed to talk. It wath boring. I’m thill working at it.”

 

“Talking was boring?” John asks, raising his eyebrows. “It’s so important, though! How else do you communicate without talking?”

 

“Don’t be boring,” Sherlock huffs and puts on his eye patch. This wasn’t going nearly as bad as he’d expected. “Pointing workth juth ath well ath wordth when everyone wantth to talk for you.”

 

John shrugs. “Fair point, actually. So how do we play?” Sherlock grins and hops down the steps.

 

\--

 

Their friendship easily grows after that. If Sherlock’s not at John’s, John is over at Sherlock’s. Unlike most of the other kids, John didn’t make fun of Sherlock’s lisp. Instead, he says, “I like it. It’s cute.” Sherlock still hates it, but a little less after John’s told him that a few times.

 

They didn’t really get to do anything for each other that first Christmas, because they didn’t know each other very well, but their second one is a little more important. A few days before Christmas, John comes over to Sherlock’s and knocks on the door. Mycroft answers and calls, “Sherlock! Door!” He lets John into the sitting room and closes the door behind him.

 

John stands there awkwardly, a big package in his hands and snow on his shoulders and head when Sherlock wanders downstairs to greet him. “John!” Sherlock cries excitedly and makes a mad dash for the tree. “I have a prethent for you!” He still hasn’t gotten his lisp to go away yet.

 

“So do I!” John tells him, watching him with a silly smile.

 

Sherlock grabs the package for John and turns to him. “Here you go. Merry Chrithmath,” he says, handing over his gift.

 

John sets his gift on the couch and takes Sherlock’s. “Thanks! Yours is right here.” He pats the box.

 

“It’th huge!” he gasps, inspecting it. “Can I open it now?”

 

“Only if I can open mine,” John answers with a laugh.

 

“No one is opening any presents until Christmas,” Sherlock’s mother interrupts before either can tear into their packages. They both whine at the same time. “Sorry, boys. That’s just how it is.” She smiles as she takes the present to Sherlock and puts it under the tree. “Are you going to stay and play for a bit, John?”

 

“Is that okay?” John asks politely, smiling hopefully.

 

“Of course. Dinner is at five, if you want to call home,” she replies and leaves the room again.

 

Sherlock grins at John. “What do you want to play? It’th your turn to pick…”

 

John shrugs. “I dunno. Let’s go play outside. Maybe we’ll build a fort and pretend we’re stuck in the mountains?”

 

“Adventurerth! Explorerth!” Sherlock enthuses, hands in fists by his chest. “That thoundth like fun! Yeah! Let me go get my coat and bootth.” He heads for the mudroom, John follows him happily. “What kind of adventurerth are we?”

 

\--

 

The inevitable came, though, when John and Sherlock would be separated. They had stayed friends through primary school and secondary school. John had helped Sherlock out when the bullies had gotten bad and had defended him on too many occasions to count. Sherlock had helped John with his homework when his grades had gotten bad. And then secondary school ended and John had been shipped off to Afghanistan. Sherlock had disappeared into the streets of London.

 

They don’t stay in touch, though they each remember their experiences together. It takes years before they meet up again, under bizarre circumstances. Sherlock proudly over-pronounces all his ‘s’s in John’s presence, thrilled at being able to do so. “You’ve lost your lisp,” John tells him casually, grinning in that goofy way of his. Sherlock preens.

 

\--

 

John’s been at work all day, and it’s Christmas Eve. Sherlock’s irritated that he’s taken the shift, that he’s been at the hospital on that day of all days. He’s sure John is tired and he wants to give him something to make it better. He goes to the tree and sifts through the gifts, deciding on one in specific. He sprawls on the couch, the gift on his stomach. The hours drag on as he waits, and he eventually falls asleep.

 

John gently shakes his shoulder. “Hey, love, wake up,” he whispers, kissing his forehead. “Why don’t you go lay down in the bed? It’ll be better for your neck.”

 

Sherlock sits up groggily, running a hand down his face. “Wait, I have something for you…” He mumbles, voice slurred a bit from sleep.

 

“Just wait until tomorrow,” John replies without waiting a beat. “There’s no rush.”

 

Sherlock shakes his head and hands him his present. “No, you need this. You’ve been busy all day.”

 

John accepts the gift without much of an argument. He inspects it and glances at Sherlock’s face for affirmation before carefully unwrapping it. He pulls the top off and smiles softly, moving Sherlock’s legs so he can sit down beside him. He lets Sherlock drop his legs back onto his lap as he picks up the scarf. He rubs it between his thumb and forefinger appreciatively. “I love it.”

 

Sherlock smiles softly at him. “I’m glad. You’re not easy to pick a present for.” He rubs his feet together, trying to warm his toes.

 

John drops the scarf and rubs at one of Sherlock’s feet slowly. “How did I end up giving _you_ a foot massage? I was the one on my feet all day.”

 

“That’s a different present,” Sherlock answers with a roll of his eyes. “Stocking stuffer.” They both chuckle. Sherlock swings his feet off John’s lap and moves closer to him, leaning over to kiss his cheek. “I love you.”

 

John stares at him in surprise. That phrase is not one that Sherlock throws around, and it’s the first time that he’s ever said it to him. “I…” It takes him a moment, and he has to clear his throat. “I love you, too, Sherlock. I love you so much…” He leans over and wraps his arms around him, pressing their lips together sweetly.

 

Sherlock sighs as they reluctantly part. “Merry Christmas,” he whispers against his lips.

 

“Merry Christmas,” John replies, keeping his eyes closed. “You know, there’s just one question I always had for you…” Sherlock hums in question. “What did you do with that present I gave you, that first Christmas we really knew each other?”

 

Sherlock grimaces. “You obviously don’t look in my side of the closet. Thank God.”

 

“Really?” John opens his eyes in surprise. “You kept that stupid jacket that long?”

 

“It’s still there,” Sherlock answers, twisting his lips. “I… It was appreciated.” He glances away. “What about you?”

 

“You never read my books,” John says with a shrug. “I tucked it into _Hitchhicker’s Guide_.” Sherlock huffs out a laugh. “It was a cute picture! You really cared and I loved it.”

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Oh, it was stupid. But I’m glad you liked it…”

 

John gives him a peck of a kiss. “I love all your gifts because they’re always so thoughtful. You never half-arse them.”

 

“I would never even dream of it!” Sherlock gasps, actually sounding offended.

 

John laughs. “Let’s go to bed. I want to give you your Christmas present.” He sets the box with the scarf in it on the coffee table and stands, pulling his partner to his feet. “And sleep. I kind of really want sleep but I’m going to put it off because I love you.”

  
“You’re so considerate,” Sherlock laughs, letting John tug him to the bedroom.


End file.
